
Book. ' 3 °r 

Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




LAND OF ROSES 



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HEPP'S ^ -*k 

GIANT LIBRARY 



EIGHT 

GREAT BOOKS 
IN A 
SINGLE 
VOLUME 



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An Unrivalled 

Compilation 

of the 

WORLD'S 

BEST 

LITERATURE 

MUSIC 

and ART 








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Masterpieces of 
HISTORY 
FICTION 
POETRY 
ORATORY 
THE DRAMA 
PAINTING 
and MELODY 



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Profusely 
Embellished with 
the Choicest 
Products of the 
Illustrator's Art 



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EDITED BY 

DANIEL B, SHEPP, Author 

of "Shepp's Photographs of the World/' 

"Shepp's World's Fair Photographed/' 

44 Shepp's New York City Illustrated/' etc. 




PUBLISHED 
BY 

GLOBE 
BIBLE 

PUBLISHING 
CO. 




723 

Chestnut St. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1897, 

By D. B. SHEPP, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



All rights reserved. 



PRESS OF 

ALFRED M. SLOCUM CO. 
PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



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PREFACE, 

GREAT BOOK," said an ancient Greek philosopher, "is a 
great evil." Never were truer words. They must be 
properly interpreted, no doubt. Some books must of 
necessity be large, and yet are by no means evil. But 
when a book can be put into smaller compass, and yet is not, but is 
made bulky and voluminous, the evil is apparent. That which is good 
in the book ib so hidden away that it cannot be found. Men cannot 
spare time to read so big a book, and thus they altogether fail to get the 
instruction and the entertainment that are buried within its pages. The 
light of truth is hidden beneath the bushel of useless verbiage. 

The present work is the result of an earnest attempt to correct such 
ill conditions. How many are there, in these busy days, who can find 
time to read through the great masterpieces of fiction, the innumerable 
volumes of poetry, the sublime dramas of Shakespeare, the detailed 
history of the world ? To do so would require that a man forsake all 
else and give his life up to this one task. Yet how dearly would every 
appreciative mind love to be stored with such intellectual treasures I 
And how desirable it is that such knowledge and entertainment should 
be placed within the reach of even the busiest man 1 

It is confidently believed that it is thus placed in " Shepp's Giant 
Library." With scholarly and reverential care, the best masterpieces of 
the world's literature have here been put into such compass as will 
make them universally accessible. They have not been dwarfed or 
mutilated. They have merely been freed from the superfluous wrap- 
pings that shut in the kernel of essential truth from the reach of the 
average reader. Of every one the full spirit is preserved in all its vital 
force, and with it far more of the letter than one man in a thousand is 
ever able to master and remember from the unabridged work. 

Beginning with the Book of Books, the Bible, the complete story 
of Divine dealings with man is given in a simple, direct and convincing 
manner, from the creation of the world to the revelation of its end. In 
like manner, the general history of the world is rehearsed, down to the 
present day, with such mingled accuracy, conciseness, completeness 
and charm of narration as may nowhere else be found. A whole 



4 PREFACE. 

library of the masterpieces of fiction, in the literature of many lands, is 
also given, within the easy compass of a single volume. The tales of 
Shakespeare's greatest dramas form another volume of surpassing value. 
Under the head of " Famous Orations" will be found an authentic 
collection of those flights of oratory that have, in many lands and ages 
and on innumerable varying occasions, thrilled and convinced the minds 
of listening multitudes. Yet another volume presents the choicest gems 
of poetry, epic and lyric, in all the range of universal literature. 

Nor are the other achievements of human genius forgotten. The 
divine art of music is represented in a whole library of selected com- 
positions, for voice and instruments, including everything of assured 
merit from the best beloved folk-songs to the most sublime symphony. 
Pictorial art, too, has its place. By the side of the library is the gallery, 
in which are exhibited the most perfect reproductions ever made of the 
great paintings which adorn the walls of royal palaces and imperial 
museums. From Paris, from Dresden, from London, from Berlin, from 
every art centre in the world these lovely creations have been gathered 
with artistic discrimination. In addition to these latter, all the books of 
the Library are profusely and appropriately illustrated in the best man- 
ner of which artistic genius is capable. 

Let it not be imagined that this is mere vainglorious boasting. The 
Library is open for actual inspection. It will be found to contain all 
that has been said, and far more. He who has it may be regardless of 
many another book. He will have in it all he could hope to get from 
years of delving in innumerable musty tomes, all he could hear in 
many seasons of operas and concerts, all he could see in years of 
wandering amid distant galleries of art. All this he may have at his own 
fireside, and find time to enjoy amid the busiest moments of the 
busiest day. It is with pardonable pride that such a work is laid before 
the public, and with ample confidence that those who look into it will 
testify that "the half was never told." 

" Of making many books," said the Preacher, "there is no end, and 
much study is a weariness to the flesh." But here are many books 
combined in one, and here is that which will give all the advantages 
and benefactions of much study with no weariness to either mind or 
flesh. Such is " Shepp's Giant Library." Such only need be its intro- 
duction to the public. 



CONTENTS. 



Book I. — Stories of the Bible. 



CHAPTER I. 

From Eden to E§ypt 19 

The Fall of Man — Cain and Abel — The Flood — The Sons of Noah — 
Sarai and Hagar — The Children of Abraham — Esau and Jacob — The 
Family of Jacob — Israel in Egypt. 

CHAPTER II. 
From Egypt to Jerusalem 27 

The Plagues of Egypt— The Exodus — In the Wilderness — The Giv- 
ing of the Law — The Tabernacle — Numbering the Tribes — Spying 
out the Land — Balak and Balaam — Reaching the Promised Land — 
The Death of Moses — Over Jordan — The Sin of Achan — The Con- 
quest of Canaan — The Judges — Abimelech — Jephthah — Samson — 
Ruth — Samuel — Saul — David and Goliath — The Passing of Saul — 
David, King of Israel. 

CHAPTER IIL 
From Jerusalem to Bethlehem 48 

Absalom — Accession of Solomon — Glories of the Kingdom — The 
Queen of Sheba — Division of the Kingdom — Elijah, the Tishbite — 
Naboth's Vineyard — Sennacherib — In Captivity — Daniel and the 
Lions — The Return to Jerusalem — Esther — The Prophets — The 
Apocrypha. 

CHAPTER IV. 
From Bethlehem to Calvary 60 

In the Temple — John the Baptist — Baptism of Jesus — Calling the 
Disciples — The First Miracle — Cleansing the Temple — Healing the 
Sick — Matthew the Publican — Sending Forth Apostles — The Sermon 
on the Mount — Raising the Dead — Stilling the Tempest — Feeding 
the Multitude — Jesus Walks on the Sea — The Transfiguration — The 
Last Visit to Jerusalem — At Bethany — The Raising of Lazarus — 
Humility Taught — Entering Jerusalem — The Plot of Judas — The Last 
Supper — Peter's Warning — The Lord's Supper — Gethsemane — The 
Betrayal — The Trial — Peter's Denial — Death of Judas — Before Pilate 

5 



CONTENTS. 

— The Crucifixion — The Burial — The Resurrection — The Ascension — 
Pentecost — Persecutions — St. Paul — Death of Herod — Paul and Barna- 
bas — Paul and Silas — On Mars Hill — Corinth and Ephesus — Before 
Felix and Festus — The Voyage to Rome — St. John at Patmos. 

Book IL — Tales from Shakespeare* 



Romeo and Juliet 85 

The Feud between the Montagues and the Capulets — Romeo in Dis- 
guise goes to the Capulets' Ball, and Falls in Love with Juliet and She 
with Him — Their Interview on Her Balcony — Plans for a Secret Mar- 
riage — Tybalt Kills Mercutio, and Romeo Kills Tybalt — Romeo is 
Banished — The Capulets Force Juliet into a Match with Paris — 
To Escape She Takes a Sleeping Potion and Feigns Death — Romeo 
and Paris Meet at Her Tomb — They Fight, and Paris is Slain — Think- 
ing Juliet Dead, Romeo Kills Himself, and She, Finding Him Dead, 
Kills Herself — The Montagues and Capulets are Reconciled to Each 
Other over the Dead Bodies of the Unfortunate Lovers. 

Hamlet 101 

The Ghost Appears to the Sentries — Hamlet and the King — Horatio 
Tells of the Ghost — Hamlet Sees and Talks with It — Laertes and 
Ophelia Discuss Hamlet's Love for Ophelia — Hamlet Vows to Avenge 
His Father's Murder — He Feigns Madness — He Engages Players to 
Present a Play Portraying the Murder of His Father — He Makes 
Ophelia Think Him Mad — The Play is Given and the King Betrayed 
— Hamlet Kills Ophelia's Father, and She Goes Mad and Kills Herself 
— Her Funeral — The King Plots to have Hamlet Killed on a Journey 
to England — Hamlet Escapes — The Queen is Poisoned with a Drink 
Meant for Hamlet — Hamlet Kills the King and Laertes, and is Himself 
Slain. 

The Merchant of Venice 116 

Portia's Suitors — Antonio Borrows Money from Shylock to Aid 
Bassanio in His Suit — Lorenzo and Jessica — Portia's Three Suitors 
try their Fate — Bassanio Wins and is Accepted — Lorenzo and Jessica 
Elope — Antonio Cannot Repay the Loan and Shylock Seeks to Make 
His Life Forfeit — The Trial — Portia, in Disguise, Defeats Shylock — 
Antonio's Fortunes are Restored — Marriage of Bassanio and Portia — 
Portia Plays a Trick upon Him, to His Great Embarrassment — 
Nerissa's Similar Trick upon Gratiano — The Tricks Confessed, and 
All Made Happy. 



CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE 

Othello 129 

The Moor of Venice — The Beautiful Desdemona — The Crafty Iago — 
Desdemona Hears the Story of Othello's Wars — They Fall in Love 
and are Married — Iago Plots Mischief — He Persuades Othello that Cas- 
sio Loves Desdemona — Othello's Jealous Suspicions are Aroused — 
Iago's Subtle Insinuations — Emilia Made a Partner in the Plot — The 

o 

Stolen Handkerchief — Othello is Distracted with Jealousy and Rage 
— He Accuses Desdemona of Infidelity — Iago Attempts the Murder of 
Cassio — Othello Kills Desdemona — Emilia Betrays Iago's Deviltry — 
Iago Kills Her — Othello Realizes Desdemona's Innocence and Kills 
Himself in Remorse. 

Macbeth 140 

The Three Weird Sisters and their Prophecy — Macbeth's Ambition — 
Part of the Prophecy Fulfilled — Lady Macbeth's Temptation — The 
Visit of the King to Macbeth's Castle — The Murder of King Duncan — 
The Knocking at the Gate — Macbeth Hires Murderers to Slay Banquo 
— The Banquet — Banquo's Ghost Appears — The Witches on the 
Heath — The Procession of Ghosts — Revolt of the Nobles — Lady Mac- 
beth's Sleep-Walking Agony — The Attack Upon Macbeth's Castle — 
The Moving Forest — Death of Lady Macbeth — The Battle — Macbeth 
and Macduff Fight — Macbeth is Slain and Macduff proclaimed King of 
Scotland in his place. 

Book DDL — Treasury of Music* 



INSTRUMENTAL. 

Album Leaf Grieg 151 

Good Night Loeschhorn 152 

From Vienna to Berlin Eilenberg 152 

Loin Du Bal Gillet 154 

Simple Aveu Thome 157 

One Heart, One Soul Johann Strauss 158 

Bridal Chorus Wagner 159 

Minuet (Don Juan) Mozart 160 

Longing Jungmann 161 

March Militaire Gobbaerts 162 

Lady Betty Seymour Smith . 163 

Andante Beethoven 164 

Kiss Waltz Johann Strauss 167 

Cavalleria Rusticana Mascagni 168 



8 CONTENTS. 

VOCAL.-Sacred. 

PAGE 

Whate'er My God Ordains is Right . . 'Beethoven 170 

I'm but a Stranger Here Abt 173 

Angels, Ever Bright and Fair Handel 174 

Softly Now the Light of Day Weber 176 

All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name . . Holden 179 

Flee as a Bird • Mrs. M. S. C B. Dana 180 

Abide with Me Monk 181 

The Hour of Prayer Herold • 182 

Jerusalem the Golden Ewing 183 

Onward, Christian Soldiers Arthur Sullivan 184 

Hark, hark, My Soul Smart 185 

Lead, Kindly Light Rev. J. B. Dykes 186 

Adeste Fideles John Reading 189 

Christmas Song Adolphe Adam 190 

VOCAL.— Secular. 

Star-Spangled Banner 195 

Sally In Our Alley Henry Carey • 196 

How Can I Leave Thee ? 197 

Annie Laurie Finlay Dunn 198 

The Open Window Alfred Scott Gatty 201 

Love's Old Sweet Song Molloy 202 

A Mother's Song Virginia Gabriel 204 

'Tis All That I Can Say Hope Temple 205 

Birdie in the Cradle Abt 207 

Comin' Thro' the Rye 208 

Remember or Forget Hamilton Aide 211 

Home, Sweet Home Paine 212 

The Harp that Once Thro' Tara's Halls, Thomas Moore 214 

Book IV.— A Cluster of Fine Art. 



Art Wins the Heart Thumann 216 

Aurora Guido 217 

Sistine Madonna Raphael 219 

Last Supper Leonardo Da Vinci 221 

Descent from the Cross Rubens 223 

The Duchess of Devonshire Gainsborough 225 

Madame Recamier Louis David Jacques * . 227 



CONTENTS. 9 



PAGE 



Christ Descending from the Prastorium . Dore 229 

Shadow of the Cross Holman Hunt 231 

Christ before Pilate Munhacsy 233 

The Soldier's Dream Detaille 235 

The Horse Fair Rosa "Bonheur 237 

A Fisherman's Love Kray 239 

The Fates Thumann 241 

Christ Blessing Little Children .... Kircbbach 243 

Diana or Christ Long 245 

Women and Children First Hemy 247 

Family of Venders Tanoux 249 

Victims of the Sea Breton 251 

The Peace Maker Greive 253 

A Proposal De Blaas 255 

Butterflies Gampenrieder 257 

Gallant Heroes Devoir 259 

Kitchen in a Monastery Greut^ner 261 

Napoleon ..'.•' Meissonier 263 

Book V* — Gems of Poetry* 



The Trojan War Homer 267 

Hector and Andromache Homer 267 

^Eneas's Account of the Sack of Troy . Virgil 268 

Among the Lost T>ante 269 

The Daisy Chaucer 274 

Una and the Lion Spencer 274 

Paradise Lost Milton 275 

Sonnets Shakespeare 276 

Alexander's Feast Dryden 277 

Fate Pope 278 

Charles the Twelfth Johnson 279 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard .... Gray 279 

Lochinvar Scott 283 

Highland Mary Burns 284 

Give Me Back My Youth Again .... Goethe 284 

The Glove Schiller 284 

The Skylark Hogg 285 

Visions of the Heart Wordsworth 285 

Apostrophe to the Ocean Byron 285 

The Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies . . Moore 286 



io CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Battle of Hohenlinden Campbell 286 

Hymn to Mount Blanc Coleridge 289 

To a Nightingale Keats 290 

To a Skylark Shelley 290 

Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe 291 

Slavery Cowper 291 

The Song of the Shirt Hood 292 

The Old Familiar Faces Lamb 295 

Ode on the Passions Collins 295 

Adieu Carlyle 296 

To a Waterfowl Bryant 297 

The Raven Poe 297 

A Psalm of Life Longfellow 299 

Day is Dying George Eliot 300 

Lead, Kindly Light Newman 300 

The Blessed Damozel Rosetti 300 

Marco Bozzaris Halleck 302 

The American Flag Drake 305 

Good-Bye, Proud World Emerson 305 

The End of the Play Thackeray 306 

The Battle of Ivry Macaulay 306 

The Three Fishers Kingsley . 308 

The Brookside Milnes 308 

The Chambered Nautilus Holmes 308 

Evelyn Hope Browning 311 

Three Kisses Mrs. Browning 311 

Farewell Swinburne 312 

Locksley Hall Tennyson 312 

Maud Muller Whittier 317 

June Lowell 318 

The Bells of Shandon Father Prout 319 

Longing for Home Ingelow 319 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is Marlow 319 

What Constitutes a State Jones 320 

To Althea from Prison Lovelace 320 

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality .... Addison 321 

America Berkeley 321 

Home, Sweet Home Payne 321 

The Old Oaken Bucket Woodworth 322 

The Star-Spangled Banner Key 322 

Hail, Columbia ! Hopkinson 323 

Old Grimes Greene 323 

Abou Ben Adhem Hunt 324 



CONTENTS. 



324 



America to Great Britain Allston 

Epithalamium Brainard 324 

Immortality of Love Sonthey 327 

The Common Lot Montgomery 327 

There is an Hour of Peaceful Rest . . Tappan 327 

The Execution of Montrose Aytoun 328 

The Beggar's Petition Moss 329 

Virtue Herbert 329 

Flowers Keble 330 

Death's Final Conquest Shirley 330 



Book VL — Famous Orations* 



Leonidas to His Three Hundred 333 

y£schines on the Crown 334 

Demosthenes against Philip . • 335 

Cicero against Catiline 339 

Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body 340 

Spartacus to the Gladiators 341 

Paul to the Athenians 342 

Pitt's Reply to Walpole t 343 

Lord Chatham against the American War 344 

Lord Brougham on Negro Slavery 345 

Sheridan against Political Jobbing 346 

Burke on the Impeachment of Warren Hastings 346 

Mirabeau's Eulogium on Franklin 349 

Patrick Henry against British Aggression 350 

Franklin on God in Government 352 

John Quincy Adams on the Declaration of Independence 352 

Washington on France and the United States 355 

Massillon on Immortality 356 

Clay on Recognizing the Independence of Greece 357 

Webster on Liberty and Union 358 

Victor Hugo on Universal Suffrage 361 

Robert Emmett's Last Speech 362 

Kossuth to the Hungarians 364 

Rufus Choate on the Birthday of Washington 365 

Black Hawk's Farewell 366 

Lincoln's Address at Gettysburg 367 

Lincoln's Second Inaugural 367 



12 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Jefferson on Republicanism 368 

Frederick Douglass at Arlington Cemetery on Decoration Day 371 

King on the Future of America 373 

Prentiss on Official Integrity 374 

Hayne on Southern Patriotism ....*•■ 377 

McDuffie on Popular Elections 378 

Beecher at Greeley's Funeral 379 

Garfield on the Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation 383 

Chauncey M. Depew on the Washington Centenary 384 

Benjamin Harrison on Industry and Anarchy 390 

Palmerston against Civil War ...'.*•• 393 

Macaulay on Public Opinion 393 

Naylor on American Laborers 395 

Hamilton on the Constitution 395 



Book VII —Fiction, 



Uncle Tom's Cabin, — By Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

David Copperfield. — By Charles Dickens. 

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.— By Jules Verne, 

Robinson Crusoe. — By Daniel Defoe. 

Les Miserables. — By Victor Hugo. 

Don Quixote. — By Miguel de Cervantes. 



Uncle Tom's Cabin 399 

Eliza's Escape — Across the River to Freedom — The Baffled Trader — 
Fighting for Freedom — Evangeline — Tom's New Master — Topsy — The 
Little Evangelist— Death of Eva — Death of St. Clare — In the Slave 
Market — Cassey — The Death of Tom — Emmeline's Escape. 

David Copperfield 4°9 

The Visit to Yarmouth — " Barkis is Willin' " — School and Schoolmates 
— Barkis Waiting — A Great Change — My Aunt Makes up Her Mind — 
Early Loves — J. Steerforth — My Profession — " Wickfield and Heep " — 
Dora — Out with the Tide — A Greater Loss — Betsy Trotwood's Story 
— Mr. Spenlow — House-keeping Extraordinary — My Child-Wife — Little 
Em'ly Again — The Home Coming — Heep — Death of Dora — Closing 
Scenes. 



CONTENTS. 13 

PAGI 

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea 421 

Aboard the "Nautilus" — Submarine Hunting — The Forest — A Dread- 
ful Scene — Shocking the Natives — Sharks and Pearls — Fighting a 
Shark — The Tunnel of Suez — A Submarine Volcano — Atlantic — The 
South Pole — The Devil Fish — A Desperate Battle — The Destroyer — 
The Maelstrom. 

Robinson Crusoe 430 

Making a Home — Planting a Garden — Boat-Building — Exploring the 
Island — A Picturesque Outfit — The Footprint in the Sand — The Rescue 
of Friday — Another Boat — Fighting Savages — Sending for Castaways 
— The English Ship — The Mutineers — Home Again at Last. 

Les Miserables 439 

M. Madeleine — Fantine — The Trial — Death of Fantine — The Escape — 
Arrest and Escape — Cosette — Marius — The Death Trap — The Barri- 
cades — The Last of Javert — The Triumph of Marius — Two Explana- 
tions — The End. 

Don Quixote 449 

The First Adventure — The Wind-Mills — Mambrino's Helmet — Dulcinea 
Del Toboso — The Knight of the Woods — Montesinos' Cave — The 
Countess of Trifaldi — Sancho and His Island — The Enchanted Head — 
The End of the Knight's Career. 



Book VIIL— History of the World. 



CHAPTER L 
Before the Christian Era 465 

Assyria — Media — Babylon — Asia Minor — Syria — Egypt — Carthage — 
Persia — War with Greece — The Fall of Persia — Early Greece — The 
Age of Pericles — The Fall of Greece — Alexander the Great — End of 
the Macedonian Empire — Origin of Rome — The Kings — The Repub- 
lic — Coriolanus and Cincinnatus — The Gauls — War with Carthage — 
Domestic Troubles — The Triumvirs — The Empire. 



14 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IL 

PAGE 

From Rome to America 478 

The Empire at its Zenith — Constantine — Goths and Vandals — The 
Saracens — Charlemagne — The Rise of England — The Norman Con- 
quest — The Crusades — France and England — The Wars of the Roses 
— The Moguls — Germany — Spain and Portugal — Various States — The 
Age of Discovery — Discovery of America. 

CHAPTER III. 

Down to Modern Times 488 

The Wars of France — England's Crowning Power — Unhappy Italy — 
Some other States — The Reformation — French Disasters — Italy — The 
English Reformation — Scandinavia — Solyman, The Magnificent — The 
New World — Religious Wars in France — The First Bourbon — Italy and 
the Turks — Spain's Cruelty and Woe — The Elizabethan Age — The 
Stuarts — The Thirty Years' War — Richelieu — Italy and Spain — East- 
ern Nations — Troubles in France — Persecutions — Marlborough — Spain 
and Portugal — Charles XII. of Sweden — Peter the Great — The Times 
of Cromwell — The Restoration — Preparing for Revolution — William of 
Orange — "Good Queen Anne" — India — The American Colonies — 
Plymouth Rock — Dates of Settlement — France Preparing for Revolu- 
tion — After Us the Deluge ! — Spain and Portugal — Frederick the Great 
— The Hanoverians. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Present Era 512 

The War Begins — The American Constitution — War of 1812 — The 
French Revolution — The Reign of Terror — Rise of Bonaparte — The 
Empire — Fall of Bonaparte — British Affairs — American Growth — Some 
Minor States — A Revolutionary Era — Italy — Germany — England and 
India — The United States — The Slavery Question — The Great Rebel- 
lion — Freedom and Victory — The Return of Peace — The French Empire 
and Republic— The Terrible Year — Great Britain — Russia and Turkey 
— China and Japan — Cuba — Closing Years. 



Illustrations* 



PAGE 

Land of Roses Frontispiece" 

Adam and Eve, 18 

Expulsion of Hagar, 24 

Jacob's Dream, 33 

Joseph Sold by his Brethren, 40 y 

Pharaoh's Rage on Learning the Children of Israel had Fled, 46 » 

Birth of Christ, 55 

Temptation of Christ, 61 

Christ on the Mount, 68 

Behold, I Stand at the Door and Knock, 77 

Shakespeare, 84 

Romeo and Juliet, act 2d, scene 2d, 90 

Romeo and Juliet, act 5th, scene 3d, 99 

Hamlet, act 3d, scene 2d, 106* 

Hamlet, act 5th, scene 1st, ii2< 

Merchant of Venice, Shylock and Jessica, 12 r 

Merchant of Venice, act 4th, scene 1st, 127- 

Othello, act 5th, scene 2d, 134 

Macbeth, act 3d, scene 4th, 143 

St. Cecilia, 150 

Song of Love, 156- 

A Dancing Lesson, 165 

The Zither Player, 172 

Harmony, 178 ' 

Chorister Girls, 187* 

Chorister Boys, 193. 

Old Songs, 200' 

First Steps, 209- 

Art Wins the Heart, 216- 

Aurora, 217. 

Sistine Madonna, 219 

Last Supper, 221 

Descent from the Cross, 223 

The Duchess of Devonshire, 225 

Madame Recamier, 227 

Christ Descending from the Praetorium, 229- 

Shadow of the Cross, 231 

Christ Before Pilate, 23 3 ■ 

The Soldier's Dream, 235 • 

The Horse Fair, 237; 

A Fisherman's Love 239 

15 






16 ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

The Fates, 241^ 

Christ Blessing Little Children, 243* 

Diana or Christ, 245, 

Women and Children First, 247.. 

Family of Venders, 249. 

Victims of the Sea, 25 u 

The Peace-Maker, 253. 

A Proposal, 255 

Butterflies, 257 

Gallant Heroes, 259 

Kitchen in a Monastery, 261- 

Napoleon, 263 

A Spring Morning, 266 

In Love, 272^ 

Gossip at the Well, 281 ' 

Sunny Italy, 288 ' 

Return of the Fishermen, 294 

Ignorance, „ ...... . 303- 

Paying the Reapers, 309- 

Arrest in the Village, 316 

Washed Ashore, 325 * 

Patrick Henry on Resistance to British Aggression, 332 

Washington, 338" 

John Quincy Adams, 347' 

Benjamin Franklin, 354/ 

Henry Irving, 360' 

Daniel Webster, 369^ 

Henry Clay, 375- 

Lincoln at Gettysburg, 382 

Victor Hugo, 391 - 

Uncle Tom, 398 

Eliza's Escape, 404 

Mr. Micawber, 413, 

Aboard the Nautilus 420 

Submarine Hunting, 426 

Robinson Crusoe, 435, 

Jean Valjean, 441 

Don Quixote Charging the Wind-Mill, 448 

Sancho Panza in the Hall of the Duchess, 457/ 

Building the Pyramids, 464. 

Roman Chariot Race, 470 1 

The Reign of Terror, 479 

Retreat from Moscow, 486, 

Charge at Waterloo, 492 ,, 

Franco-Prussian War, $01 v 

Account of the Battle, 507 

Turkish Cavalry Evacuating Greece, 514 






^A. *& 



BOOK I. 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 







ADAM AND EVE 



Book L 
Stories of the Bible* 



CHAPTER L 

FROM EDEN TO EGYPT. 

The Fall of Man— Cain and Abel— the flood— The Sons of Noah- 
Sarai and Hagar— The Children of Abraham— Esau and 
Jacob— The family of Jacob— Israel in Egypt. 



"N the beginning" — majestic opening of majestic history — "in the beginning 
God created the heavens and the earth." In six days He created them, or 
six periods, in an order exactly coinciding with the scientific order of evolu- 
tion. Genesis and geology agree with mathematical accuracy. First, the earth was 
without form and void, and dark ; primordial nebula. The Spirit of God moved 
upon it, and motion began. Then God said, " Let there be light," and there was 
light. Then the revolving nebula became divided into systems and worlds. This 
earth was transformed from a fluid into a solid mass. Dry land appeared, and 
vegetable life was created. Next the photosphere, or enveloping cloud of luminous 
gases around the earth, was absorbed and vanished, and the sun and moon and 
stars became visible. Pure atmospheric air having taken the place of the gaseous 
photosphere, the earth was fitted for animal life, and it accordingly appeared ; first, 
molluscs ; then fishes, then birds, then reptiles, then mammals. Finally, in due 
course of time " God created man in His own image." Such was the work of crea- 
tion, and after it "God rested." For since the creation of man there have been no 
more creative acts, no more perceptible processes of evolution. The age of man 
is the Sabbath of the universe. 

The Fall of Man* 

God placed the man whom He had made in a garden in Eden, and created, 
from a rib taken from his side, a woman to be his wife. Adam and Eve were their 
names, "And God blessed them, and God said unto them, ( Be fruitful, and multiply 
and replenish the earth, and subdue it : and have dominion over the fish of the sea, 
and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth. 
Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat : but of the tree of the knowledge 
of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof 
thou shalt surely die.' " Then came the spirit of evil in the form of a serpent and 
2 19 



20 STORIES OF THE BIBLE, 

tempted the woman to eat the forbidden fruit, telling her that if she did so she 
would become as wise as God Himself, and that she would not die, as God had 
threatened. "And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that 
it was pleasant to the eye, and the tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of 
the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did 
eat." Forthwith knowledge of evil came upon them. They sought to hide them- 
selves from God, for they were ashamed to meet Him. But God called them, and 
convicted them of their sin. He cursed the serpent, and put everlasting enmity 
between him and the children of men, and He doomed Adam and Eve to pain and 
labor and final death, and drove them from the garden. 

Cain and Abel. 

To Adam and Eve, after their departure from the garden, were born two sons, 
Cain and Abel. The one was a tiller of the ground, the other a keeper of sheep. 
The two brothers offered sacrifices to God, each of the products of his labor, and 
Abel's was accepted, but Cain's was not. Therefore Cain became angry with Abel 
and slew him. "And the Lord said unto Cain, ' Where is Abel, thy brother ? ' And 
he said: 'I know not: am I my brother's keeper ?' And He said, 'What hast thou 
done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto Me from the ground. And now 
art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy 
brother's blood from thy hand: a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the 
earth.'" And then God set a mark upon Cain by which all who saw him should 
know him, but which would prevent any one from killing him. Then Cain went to 
another country and took to himself a wife. Among his descendants were Jubal, the 
inventor of musical instruments, and Tubal-Cain, the first artificer in brass. and iron. 

After Cain and Abel, a third son was born to Adam and Eve, whom they named 
Seth, and through him descended a long line of patriarchs. These lived to a great 
age. Adam himself lived 930 years, Seth 912, and others for many generations 
lived to similar ages. Oldest of all was Methuselah, the seventh in direct line from 
Adam, who lived to the age of 969 years. The grandson of Methuselah was Noah, 
in whose time came a most stupendous change upon the world. 

The Flood. 

As the human race grew in numbers, it became wicked and corrupt, and God 
determined to destroy it with a mighty flood. Noah and his family alone were 
righteous, and they alone were to be saved. So God commanded him to make a 
huge ark, into which he should take his wife, his sons, and his sons' wives, and a 
pair of every sort of animals, in order that they might survive the flood and after it 
repopulate the earth. Noah did so, and then came the flood which covered the 
earth with water and destroyed all life save that in the ark. For forty days and 
forty nights it rained, and after that the flood remained for 150 days upon the earth. 
Then the water began gradually to subside until the dry land again appeared. As 
Lie flood subsided, Noah sent out from the ark a raven, which did not return to 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE, 21 

him but flew about until the waters were dried up. He also sent out a dove which 
finding no ground to rest upon, returned to him. A second time he sent out the dove, 
and then it returned to him bearing an olive leaf, so that he knew the waters were 
abated from off the earth. Seven days later he sent forth the dove again, but it did 
not return to him. Then he waited a little longer and then, at the command of God, 
opened the ark and came forth with his family and all the animals. 

Then Noah built an altar and worshipped God, and God said, " I will not again 
curse the ground any more for man's sake ; neither will I again smite any more every 
thing living, as I have done. While the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest, 
and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease." 
And God blessed Noah and his sons and said unto them, " Be fruitful and multi- 
ply and replenish the earth. And behold, I establish my covenant with you, and 
with your seed after you. I do set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token 
of a covenant betveen Me and the earth. And I will look upon it and I will remem- 
ber My covenant, and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh. " 

The Sons of Noah. 

The sons of Noah were Shem, Ham and Japheth. From them descended the 
three great divisions of the human race, now called Semitic, Hamitic, and Japhetic. 
For a time all men spoke the same language. But then they determined to build a 
great city and a great tower, to be their capital and rallying place. At the building 
of it God sent upon them a diversity of languages, and so the city and tower were 
called Babel, or " Confusion." Then they scattered abroad, in various parts of the 
earth. Thereafter, the story of the Bible deals chiefly with the descendants of 
Shem, from whom came the Hebrew race. 

Ninth in descent from Shem came Abram, who was destined to lead a great rev- 
olution in the affairs of men. He first dwelt in the land of the Chaldees. But God 
said to him, "Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy 
father's house, unto a land that I will show thee : and I will make of thee a great 
nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great ; and thou shalt be a bless- 
ing : and I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that cursest thee : and in 
thee shall all families of the earth be blessed." So Abram departed, and his nephew 
Lot went with him, and they settled in the land of Canaan, not far from where 
Jerusalem was afterward built. And God said to him, " Unto thy seed will I give 
this land." Abram also journeyed to Egypt and dwelt there for a time and became 
very rich in cattle, silver and gold. He also organized a fighting force, and became 
one of the most powerful chieftains in all the land. 

Sarai and Hagar. 

The wife of Abram was named Sarai, and she was childless. So he took for a 
second wife Sarai's servant Hagar, who presently bore him a son. This aroused the 
jealousy and wrath of Sarai and she bitterly persecuted Hagar, and Hagar fled from her 
into the wilderness. But the Angel of the Lord commanded her to return, and she did 
so for a time. But again Sarai; to whom a son had now been born, persecuted her more 



22 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

bitterly and drove her forth from her home. So Hagar and her son, Ishmael, went 
out into the wilderness. And after a time they nearly perished of thirst. But God 
spoke to Hagar from the heavens and told her their lives should be spared, and 
showed her a well of water. And after that they prospered greatly. But according 
to the word of God, Ishmael became a wild man, whose hand was against every 
man and against whom every man's hand was turned. 

About this time the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah became so wicked that God 
determined to destroy them and their inhabitants with fire. Abram, who was now 
called Abraham, pleaded with God that he would spare them, and God agreed to do 
so if ten righteous men could be found in them. But Abraham could not find so 
many, but only one, his nephew Lot. So Lot and his wife and two daughters were 
warned by an angel and they fled from Sodom to the city of Zoar, where they would 
be safe. But Lot's wife looked back longingly and was turned into a pillar of salt. 
Then God rained fire upon the cities and they were utterly destroyed, and the place 
where they were was covered with the Dead Sea. 

The Children of Abraham. 

The faith of Abraham in God was wonderfully tested when God commanded 
him to offer up his son as a sacrifice. Abraham prepared to do it, but just as he was 
about to slay the lad God stayed his hand, and then repeated the promise to Abra- 
ham that he should be the father of a great nation. Abraham's son was named Isaac, 
and when he was grown to manhood Abraham determined to choose a suitable wife 
for him from among his own kindred. So he sent a servant to visit his neighbor and 
kinsman, Bethuel, who had a beautiful daughter named Rebecca. He found Re- 
becca at the well drawing water, and she graciously offered to draw water for the 
camels in his train. Then she invited him into her father's house and gave hospita- 
ble entertainment. The man was charmed with her beauty and grace, and was 
convinced that she was designed to be the wife of Isaac. So he made her rich 
presents and asked for her hand for Isaac. Her father and her brother, Laban, con- 
sented and she returned with the messenger to Abraham's house, where she became 
Isaac's wife, and through those two came the children in whom the promise to Abra- 
ham was to be fulfilled. 

Esau and Jacob. 

To Isaac and Rebecca were born twin sons, Esau and Jacob. The former grew 
up to be a hunter, the latter a farmer. Esau was Isaac's favorite, but Rebecca pre- 
ferred Jacob. One day Esau came home from the hunt hungry and tired, and asked 
Jacob for food. Jacob refused to give him any unless Esau would give him in turn 
his right to the inheritance of their father. Esau agreed, and thus practically disin- 
herited himself. Afterward, when Isaac was very old and blind, he asked Esau to 
get some venison for him, and Esau went out to do so. But in the meantime Re- 
becca directed Jacob to offer his father food and thus to get from him a blessing. 
Jacob did so, disguising himself so as to seem to be Esau to the groping hands of his 
father. So Isaac bestowed upon Jacob his blessing, supposing him to be Esau. 




EXPULSION OF HAGAR 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 25 

Then Esau came and the trick was discovered, but the blessing could not be recalled 
from Jacob. So enmity arose in the heart of Esau against Jacob, and Jacob fled for 
his life. One night, during his exile, as he lay asleep he had a vision of Heaven 
opened and angels descending and ascending on a great ladder ; and God spoke to 
him and renewed to him the covenant he had made with Abraham and Isaac. In the 
morning Jacob built there an altar, and consecrated his life to the service of God, 
and went on his way encouraged and rejoicing. 

The Family of Jacob* 

Jacob soon came to the home of his uncle Laban, who had two daughters, Leah 
and Rachel. Jacob became enamored of Rachel, and agreed to work in Laban's 
service for seven years if Laban would give her to him for his wife. But at the end 
of the seven years Laban insisted that Jacob should marry Leah instead, because 
she was the elder. Jacob agreed to this, but asked to have Rachel also, for whom 
he would serve Laban seven years longer. Thus he secured his two cousins for his 
wives, and he took two other wives also. To him they bore a number of sons : 
Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Dan, Nephtali, Gad, Asher, Issachar, Zebulun, Jos- 
eph, and Benjamin. These were the sons of Jacob. Then Jacob, who had grown 
richer in cattle and goods than Laban, took his departure and returned to his old 
home. On the way he met his brother Esau and became reconciled with him. Soon 
after the aged Isaac died, and Jacob succeeded to his possessions. 

Joseph, the next to the youngest of Jacob's sons, was his father's favorite. He 
was also a dreamer of dreams, and in some of these dreams he was represented as 
superior to his brothers. Therefore his brothers hated him, and one day planned to 
kill him. But Reuben persuaded them merely to imprison him in a pit, and then to 
sell him as a slave to some Egyptian traders. Then they reported to Jacob that 
Joseph had been killed by a wild beast, and Jacob mourned for him as one dead. 
Joseph was, however, sold to Potiphar, an officer of the court of Pharaoh, the King 
of Egypt. He proved himself a faithful and capable servant, and was soon advanced 
to be manager of Potiphar's whole estate. Then Potiphar's wife tempted him to 
sin, and on his refusal to do as she wished, had him cast into prison. There he won 
the favor of the prison keeper, and became noted as an interpreter of dreams. 
Pharaoh, the King, having a strange dream, which none of his men could interpret, 
Joseph was sent for. He interpreted the dream and was taken into Pharaoh's favor 
and made the chief minister of Pharaoh's court. 

Israel in Egypt* 

After this there came a great famine upon the country where Jacob dwelt, and 
the sons of Jacob went down to Egypt to buy grain, where it was plentiful. They 
did not know Joseph, but he knew them, and on a pretence that they were spies he 
threw them into prison and refused to release them until they had sent for their 
youngest brother, Benjamin, who had remained at home with his father. Then he 
released them, and they all started home with an abundant supply of grain. But 
he stopped them, and revealed to them who he was, and bade them remain in Egypt 



26 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 



and prosper, and send for their father and all his household to come there too. So 
Jacob, who was now called Israel, and all his family, settled in Egypt and greatly 
prospered. He adopted as his own his two grandsons, Manasseh and Ephraim, the 
sons of Joseph who had been born in Egypt, and then he blessed them all and died. 
Joseph bore his body back to his old home and buried it there, and then returned to 
Egypt and died. But his brothers and all their households remained in Egypt. 




CHAPTER II. 



FROM EGYPT TO JERUSALEM. 
THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT— THE EXODUS— IN THE WILDERNESS— THE GIVING OF 

the Law— The Tabernacle— Numbering the Tribes-Spying out the 
Land— Balak and Balaam— Reaching the Promised Land— The 
Death of Moses— Over Jordan— The Sin of achan— the 
Conquest of Canaan— the Judges— abimelech— 
jephthah— Samson — Ruth— Samuel— Saul- 
David and Goliath— The Passing of 
Saul— David, King of Israel. 



&- 



FTER the death of Joseph another king came to the throne in Egypt, who 
was jealous of the prosperity of the Israelites and began to persecute 
and oppress them. First he made them slaves, and then commanded 
all their male children to be put to death. One of the sons of Levi and his wife 
had a son whom they sought to preserve by placing him in a little boat hidden in 
the rushes in the margin of the river Nile. There the child was found by the 
daughter of Pharaoh, and she named him Moses, and adopted him and had him 
brought up as her own. But when Moses was grown, and saw how his kinsmen 
were oppressed, he refused to be known as the son of Pharaoh's daughter, but 
departed from the court and cast in his lot with the Children of Israel. 

While Moses was tending the flocks of his father-in-law, God appeared to 
him in a vision at Mount Horeb, as a flame of fire in a bush, though the bush was 
not consumed. And God told him he would make him the deliverer of the Israelites 
from Egyptian bondage, and the leader of them into the land of Canaan, which he 
would deliver into their hands. So Moses and Aaron his brother returned to their 
oppressed kinsmen in Egypt, to begin the work of deliverance. They found the 
persecutions greatly increased. The Israelites were compelled to make bricks for 
the building of Pharaoh's palaces, though the necessary materials for making the 
bricks were not furnished to them, and when they failed to make the required 
number they were cruelly beaten with whips. 

The Plagues of Egypt. 

Moses and Aaron went before Pharaoh and demanded that he should release 
the Israelites from their bondage and let them depart from Egypt. Pharaoh asked 

27 



28 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

for a sign of their divine mission, whereupon Aaron threw his staff upon the ground 
and it became a serpent. The Egyptian priests did the same with their rods, which 
also became serpents. But Aaron's rod swallowed up all the others. Pharaoh's 
heart was hardened, however, and he refused to let the Israelites go. So at the 
word of Moses the waters of the river were turned into blood. This was the first 
of the plagues of Egypt. Pharaoh was still stubborn, and a second plague was 
sent upon the land, in the form of swarms of frogs, which were regarded by the 
Egyptians as unclean. Then Pharaoh consented to let them go, and the plague 
was abated. Again he hardened his heart and refused to let them go, and another 
plague, of lice, was sent upon the land. That was followed with a plague of flies, 
and then Pharaoh relented and promised to let them go, only to break his word as 
soon as the plague was abated. 

Next came a murrain, which destroyed all the cattle of Egypt, and then an 
epidemic of boils upon the people, and then a storm of hail and fire. Then Pharaoh 
once more pretended that he would release the Israelites, but did not, and a plague 
of locusts was sent. Next came a plague of darkness, so dense that it could be 
felt, and finally the first-born child of every Egyptian family was slain, and also the 
first-born of all beasts. From all these plagues the children of Israel were exempt. 
In the last plague the Israelites marked the doorposts of their houses with the blood 
of lambs, and the death which smote the first-born of the Egyptians passed over 
them and left them unharmed. Thus was established the feast of the Passover, 
which ever afterward was the chief of the feasts kept by the Children of Israel. 

The Exodus. 

After this last and most dreadful plague, Pharaoh did let the Children of 
Israel go. The latter, under the command of God, before setting out borrowed 
from their Egyptian neighbors all the gold and gems and other valuable articles 
they could, and carried them away, partly to punish the Egyptians for their cruelty, 
and partly to reward the Israelites for their years of servitude. They marched 
toward Canaan, but not by the direct road, which would have led them through the 
land of the Philistines, a warlike people with whom they were ill prepared to cope. 
Instead they went toward the Red Sea, the Lord leading them in the form of a 
pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of flame by night. 

Then Pharaoh began to regret that he had let them go, and set out with an 
army to bring them back. He overtook them near the shore of the Red Sea, and 
they were in great distress for fear he would capture them before they could get 
across. At first there seemed no way for them to get across. But God sent a great 
wind which parted the waters of the Red Sea so that the Israelites could pass over 
on dry ground. The Egyptians followed them, but God delayed their pursuit until 
the Israelites were safely on the other side. Then he let the Egyptians come on to 
the middle of the sea and then let the waters rush back and drown them all. Thus 
were the Israelites led safely out of Egypt and they sang songs of praise to God for 
their deliverance. 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 29 

In the Wilderness. 

The Israelites were now in the wilderness of Arabia Petraea. When they 
became weary of marching they murmured. When they found at Marah only bitter 
or brackish water to drink, they complained to Moses, and Moses prayed to God 
and made the water sweet for them. Then they ran short of food, and murmured 
again, and wished they were back in Egypt. So God sent great flocks of quail to 
them, and caused manna to grow on the grass, so that they were well fed. Again 
they came to a place where there was no water to drink, and murmured against 
Moses, until God enabled him to draw a plentiful stream of water from a rock by 
striking it with his staff. 

Next they came to a hostile tribe known as the Amalekites, and Moses sent out 
the strongest of the Israelites under the leadership of a man named Joshua, to fight 
them. Moses himself went up on a hill overlooking the battle and prayed. As long 
as he held his hands up to Heaven the Israelites were victorious, but when his hands 
grew weary and fell they were defeated. So Aaron and Hur stood one at each side 
and held up his hands all day, until the complete victory was won. 

The Giving of the Law* 

When the Israelites reached Mount Sinai, they encamped there, and Moses 
went up to the top of the mountain to commune with God. And the mountain was 
enveloped in clouds, and there were thunder and lightning and a great earthquake. 
In that most memorable interview God gave to Moses the great fundamental law 
known as the Ten Commandments, engraved on a tablet of stone. These were 
the Commandments : 

" Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 

" Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything 
that is in the Heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water 
under the earth : Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them : For 
I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the 
children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me ; and showing 
mercy unto thousands of them that love me and keep my commandments. 

" Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain ; for the Lord will 
not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. 

" Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six davs shalt thou labor, and 
do all thy work : But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God : In it 
thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, 
nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor the stranger that is within thy gates : For 
in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and 
rested the seventh day ; wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it. 

" Honor thy father and thy mother : That thy days may be long upon the land 
which the Lord thy God giveth thee. 

"Thou shalt not kill. 

" Thou shalt not commit adultery. 



30 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

" Thou shalt not steal. 

" Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. 

" Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's 
wife, nor his man servant, nor his maid servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anytning 
that is thy neighbor's." 

And all the people saw the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the noise of the 

trumpet, and the mountain smoking. And when they saw it they were afraid and 

stood far off. And they said to Moses, "Speak thou with us, and we will hear. 

But let not God speak with us, lest we die." And Moses said to them, " Fear not ; 

for God is come to prove you, and that his fear may be before your faces, that ye 

sin not." So the people stood at a distance while Moses drew near to the dark 

cloud where God was. 

The Tabernacle* 

God also commanded Moses to construct a tabernacle, or great tent, to serve as 
a place of worship. He gave minute directions as to the plan and building of it and 
the arrangement of its contents. In it was to be a wooden chest covered with gold, 
containing the tablet bearing the law and other objects, to be known as the Ark of 
the Covenant. Aaron and his sons were to be the priests who should have charge of 
the Tabernacle and minister at its altar, and the Tabernacle was to be carried by 
the people in all their wanderings until they reached a permanent home in the 
promised land of Canaan. 

For forty days and nights Moses remained on the mountain, alone with God, 
receiving these instructions. Meanwhile the people grew impatient, and demanded 
some other god which they might worship. So they took the gold they had brought 
from Egypt and melted it and made of it an image of a calf, such as they had seen 
the Egyptians worship, and they began to worship it. When Moses came down 
from the mountain he found the people at their idolatrous practices, and was so 
enraged at them that he flung down the stone tablet bearing the law and broke it 
into pieces. Then he burned the image in fire, and ground it to powder, and mixed 
the powder with water and made the people drink it. Finally, he ordered the sons 
of Levi to put to death about three thousand of the idolators. After that, Moses 
made a new tablet of stone, and God wrote the Ten Commandments upon it, as 
before, and the people in their repentance went zealously to work and built the 
Tabernacle as they had been commanded. 

Numbering: the Tribes. 

After the Tabernacle was finished, and the elaborate ceremonial of the law put 
into practice, the word was given for the Children of Israel to break camp and 
march on ; for now, a year after leaving Egypt, they were still at Mount Sinai. 
First, there was a "numbering of the tribes." A census was taken, and all the 
people were divided into thirteen great companies. Each company consisted of the 
descendants of one of the sons of Jacob, or of one of the two sons of Joseph. As 
it would be necessary for them to fight for the land of Canaan, they also took a 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 31 

census of all the able-bodied men who could serve as soldiers. There were over six 
hundred thousand of these, not counting those of the tribe of Levi, who were set 
aside as priests and servants of the Tabernacle. Of these there were eight thou- 
sand five hundred and eighty. 

On their journey the Israelites marched like an army, each of the thirteen 
tribes under its own leader. When they rested, they formed a huge camp, with the 
Tabernacle in the centre. Soon after they moved on from Mount Sinai they began 
murmuring again because they had only manna to eat, whereas they wanted meat. 
So God sent them vast flocks of quails, and compelled them to eat them until they 
grew sick of them. After this, Moses* sister, Miriam, found fault with Moses be- 
cause he had married a woman who was not an Israelite, and also because he was 
the supreme leader of the people. For punishment she was smitten with leprosy, 
and was healed only when she repented and Moses prayed for her. 

Spying: out the Land. 

Now the great host came near the borders of the land of Canaan, which had 
been promised to them for their home. Twelve men, one from each tribe excepting 
the Levites, were sent forward as spies, to discover what kind of a land it was and 
what sort of people inhabited it. They spent forty days in so doing, and then re- 
ported that it was a rich country, in proof of which they brought back a bunch of 
grapes so large that it took two men to carry it. But they said the people were 
giants, and the cities were strongly fortified, and it would be impossible to subdue 
them, and so they all except two spoke against attempting to enter the promised 
land. The two were Joshua and Caleb. They had faith in God's promise to give 
them possession of the land, and they urged the Israelites to enter it at once. 

After some consideration the people decided not to try to enter Canaan. At 
this Moses and Aaron, and Joshua and Caleb, were greatly distressed. The Lord 
was so displeased that he threatened to send a pestilence and destroy the people. 
At Moses' prayer the pestilence was averted, but God decreed that the people 
should go back and wander in the wilderness for forty years, until all the men who 
had refused to enter Canaan were dead. Then their children should enter the 
promised land, and Joshua and Caleb should live to go with them. So they 
were all turned back into the wilderness again, where they met with many 
vicissitudes, and often fell into sin and were severely punished by the judgments 
of the Lord. 

On one occasion they clamored for water, and railed against Moses for bringing 
them into a desert to die of thirst, although it was their own fault that they were 
there. Moses was a very patient man, but at this his patience gave way, and in a 
fit of wrath he exclaimed, " Must we fetch you water out of this rock ? " Then he 
struck the rock, and water gushed forth freely. But Moses sinned in speaking 
angrily, and in speaking as though it were through his own power that he made the 
water flow. For this God decreed that he should merely see, but should not enter, 
the promised land. Again the Israelites became rebellious, and God sent a plague 
of fiery serpents against them, the bite of which was death. Many men were thus 



32 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

slain, until Moses, authorized by the Lord, set up a serpent made of brass upon a 
pole, and all who looked upon it were healed. 

Balak and Balaam* 

When the Israelites reached the land of Moab, the king of the country, Balak, 
was afraid of them and wished to drive them back. So he hired one of the wise 
men of the land, named Balaam, to go out and curse them ; for Balaam professed to 
be a prophet and to have power with God. Balaam set out on his mission riding on 
an ass, and God sent an angel to stop him. The angel stood in the pathway and 
the ass saw him, but Balaam could not. The ass turned out into the field to get 
past, and Balaam struck it and forced it back into the road. This happened a second 
and a third time, and then God gave the ass power to speak like a man and to 
rebuke Balaam for striking him. Then Balaam's eyes were opened and he saw the 
angel, and the angel commanded him to return to the king, but to speak only such 
words as should be given to him by the angel. 

The King then took Balaam to a place overlooking the camp of the Israelites, 
and built seven altars and offered sacrifices thereon. Then Balaam attempted to 
pronounce a curse upon the Israelites. But the angel of God put words of blessing 
into his mouth instead. Then the King took Balaam to another place, and built 
more altars and offered sacrifices. But again Balaam spoke blessings when he tried 
to curse. A third time they tried it, on the summit of Mount Peor, and again Balaam 
blessed instead of cursing Israel : "How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob," he said, 
" and thy tabernacles, O Israel. As the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens 
by the river's side, as the trees which the Lord hath planted, and as cedar trees 
beside the waters. Blessed is he that blesseth thee, and cursed is he that curseth 
thee. Who can count the dust of Jacob, and the number of the fourth part of 
Israel ? Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his. I 
shall see him, but not now. I shall behold him, but not nigh. There shall come a 
Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners 
of Moab, and destroy all the children of Sheth." After this, the King despaired of 
turning back Israel, and Balaam rose up, and went and returned to his place ; and 
Balak also went his way. 

Reaching the Promised Land* 

At last the years of wandering were done. Of all who had set out from Egypt, 
only three were now alive, Moses, Joshua, and Caleb. These, with all the great 
host of Israel, reached the eastern side of the River Jordan, and encamped there. 
Two of the tribes, Reuben and Gad, and half of the tribe of Manasseh, decided to 
remain on that side of the river, but the others prepared to cross over and conquer 
the Canaanites and take possession of the land. Their years of wandering in the 
wilderness had made them hardy and brave, and they did not fear the people they 
would have to meet. It was planned that a portion of the country should be 
assigned to each of the tribes, excepting the Levites, for whom the others should 
provide a number of cities for their homes. 



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STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 35 

Now Moses knew the end of his life was near. So he spoke long and earnestly, 
and for the last time, to the people of whom he had so long been the leader. He 
reminded them of all that had happened to them since they left Egypt, and of the 
promise God had given them for the future. He exhorted them to keep the law, and 
to observe all things that God had commanded them. He also wrote down in a 
book all the laws which God had given. Then he sang a great song of thanks- 
giving and prophesy : " Give ear, O ye Heavens, and I will speak ; and hear, O 
earth, the words of my mouth. My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall 
distill as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon 
the grass : Because I will publish the name of the Lord : Ascribe ye greatness 
unto our God. He is the Rock, His work is perfect: For all His ways are 
judgment : A God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is He. Remember 
the days of old, consider the years of many generations : Ask thy father, and he will 
show thee ; thy elders, and they will tell thee. How should one chase a thousand, 
and two put ten thousand to flight, except their Rock had sold them, and the Lord had 
shut them up ? Rejoice, O ye nations, with His people : For He will avenge the 
blood of His servants, and will render vengeance to His adversaries, and will be 
merciful unto His land, and to His people." And Moses made an end of speaking to 
Israel, and he said unto them, ''Set your hearts unto all the words which I testify 
among you this day, which ye shall command your children to observe to do, all the 
words of this law. For it is not a vain thing for you ; because it is your life." 

The Death of Moses. 

Then God led Moses from the plain of Moab, where the Children of Israel were 
encamped, to the mountains of Nebo, and to the top of Mount Pisgah, from which 
he could look across the River Jordan and see the promised land into which he 
might not enter. And the Lord said unto him, "This is the land which I swear 
unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed. I 
have caused thee to see it with thy eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither." So 
Moses the servant of the Lord died there in the land of Moab, according to the word 
of the Lord. And he buried him in a valley in the Land of Moab, over against 
Beth-peor : But no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day. And Moses was 
a hundred and twenty years old when he died, and his eye was not dim, nor his 
natural force abated. And the Children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of 
Moab thirty days. Then Joshua, who was full of the spirit of wisdom, and upon 
whom Moses had laid his hands, became the leader of Israel, and the Children of 
Israel hearkened unto him and did as they were commanded. But there never 
again arose a prophet in Israel like unto Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face. 

Over Jordan* 

So Joshua succeeded Moses as the leader of Israel, and began forthwith to 
prepare for the crossing over into Canaan. First he sent two spies, who made their 
way to the city of Jericho. There the King of that place sought to kill them, but 
a woman named Rahab gave them shelter, and hid them underneath the bundles of 



36 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

flax which were drying upon the roof of her house, and so saved them. She told 
them that she knew who they were, and the wonders God had wrought since they left 
Egypt, and she begged them that when the Israelites came over and possessed the 
land they would remember her and save her and her family from destruction. The 
men promised her that this should be done, and then, at night, she lowered them out 
of an upper window of her house and they went on their way in safety. 

Then the Israelites prepared to cross the river. First the priests took up the 
Ark of the Covenant and marched boldly into the river. The waters of the river 
were at that time very high, but they immediately receded before the priests and 
the bed of the river was made dry. So the priests went with the Ark to the centre 
of the river and stood there while all the great multitudes of the Israelites passed 
over in safety on dry ground. Then twelve men, one from each tribe, each took a 
stone from the bed of the river where the priests were standing and carried them 
over to the new camp and there built a monument of them as a memorial of the 
passage over Jordan. And when all the rest were safely over the priests came up 
out of the bed of the river with the Ark, and then the waters came together again 
and filled up the bed of the river, and the river flowed on as before. 

The first camp was made at Gilgal, and then the supply of manna ceased and 
they began to feed upon the fruits of the land of Canaan. Next they went on to 
Jericho and found the city gates barred against them. They made no attack upon 
the city, but by the command of God marched around it each day, for seven days, 
blowing trumpets made of rams' horns, and bearing the Ark of the Covenant. 
And on the seventh day, at a blast of the trumpet, all the people shouted aloud, 
and the walls of the city fell down flat before them. Then they entered the city 
and captured it and destroyed it and all its inhabitants, excepting the woman Rahab 
and her household, whom they saved and took with them as their guests. All the 
gold and silver and other valuables which they found in the city were turned in to 
the treasury of the Tabernacle. The news of the capture of Jericho spread 
throughout the land and all the inhabitants were stricken with fear of the Israelites. 

The Sin of Achan* 

The next city attacked was Ai. It was a small, weak place, but the Israelites 
were repulsed from it in a disastrous manner. Joshua in his distress turned to God 
for aid, whereupon it was revealed to him that some one in the camp of Israel had 
disobediently kept for himself some of the spoils of Jericho instead of turning them 
in to the treasury of the Lord, and this defeat was sent as a punishment for his sin. 
Then it was shown that a man named Achan was the guilty one. He had kept a 
beautiful garment, and some silver, and a wedge of gold, and had hidden them 
under his tent. So he and his family were put to death, and the city of Ai was 
then readily captured. 

Then Joshua built an altar on Mount Ebal and he wrote upon the stones of it a 
copy of the law of Moses. And all Israel gathered about while he read the words 
of the law, the blessings and cursings, according to all that is written in the book of 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 37 

the law. There was not a word of all that Moses commanded which Joshua did 

not read to them. _ 

L he Conquest 01 Canaan. 

Thus the whole of the land was, piece by piece, subdued, by the Israelites, 
and most of its inhabitants destroyed. The people of the city of Gideon saved 
themselves by a trick. They disguised themselves as travelers from a far country, 
went to Joshua's camp, and asked him to make a league of peace with them. 
Joshua was deceived, and granted their request, and pledged himself not to destroy 
them. But three days later he found out who they were, and how they had 
deceived him. He could not break his word, which he had pledged to them, but he 
said to them : "Now ye are cursed, and there shall none of you be freed from 
being bondmen, and hewers of wood, and drawers of water for the house of my 
God." And they answered him and said : " Behold we are in thine hand. As it 
seemeth good and right unto thee to do unto us, do." And Joshua made them that 
day hewers of wood and drawers of water for the congregation and for the altar of 
the Lord ; and so they remained. 

Then the kings of five of the tribes in Canaan heard how the men of Gideon 
had made peace with Joshua, and were angry, and declared war against Gideon. 
Joshua went to meet them and defeated them, and God sent a storm of hail upon 
them, which killed a great multitude. And at Joshua's word the sun and moon 
stood still, and the day was thus doubled in length, to give more time for the battle 
and for the destruction of the enemies of Israel. The five kings fled and hid in a 
cave, but were captured and hanged. In like manner Joshua marched all over the 
land of Canaan, subduing it and destroying the inhabitants, after which it was 
divided among the tribes of Israel by lot. The tabernacle was set up at Shiloh, and 
that place was thus made the religious capital of the country. Six cities of refuge 
were established, into which persons who had unintentionally killed others might 
enter and be safe from vengeance, and forty-eight cities were apportioned to the 
Levites. Then Joshua called all the elders of all the tribes together at Schechem, 
and addressed them much as Moses had done in his last speech to them. He re- 
wrote the law in a book, and set up a memorial of the promise of the people to keep 
it, and then he died and was buried. 

The Judges. 

After Joshua's death the leadership of Israel fell to a succession of so-called 
Judges, of whom in three hundred years there were fifteen, one of them being a 
woman. The first was Othniel, Caleb's younger brother. After him came Ehud, 
a left-handed man. At this time the King of Moab made war against Israel, and 
Ehud, visiting him in friendly guise, stabbed him and killed him, and then rallied 
the Israelites and conquered the men of Moab. The third Judge, Shamgar, who led 
Israel against the Philistines, and with no weapon but an ox goad, slew six hundred 
men in one battle. The next was a woman, Deborah, who made a man named 
Barak commander of the army, and sent him to fight Sisera, the commander of the 
army of the King of Canaan. Barak defeated Sisera with great slaughter, and 



38 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

Sisera fled and took refuge in the tent of a woman named Jael, who let him think 
she would save him. But while he slept she drove a great nail into his head, and 
thus murdered him. 

After this the Midianites attacked Israel, and ravaged it, and drove the people 
out of the cities into woods and caves. Then arose a man named Gideon, a 
farmer, to whom the Lord appeared, to set the Children of Israel free. He rallied 
the Israelites and urged them to march against the Midianites, and by a series of 
miracles convinced them that God would give them the victory. But God was not 
willing to have the whole army of Israel go into battle for fear they would think 
they had won the victory through their own strength. So all who were afraid to 
fight were sent back. There were twenty-two thousand of them, and only ten 
thousand were left. Then all the men were led down to the river to drink, and 
only those who scooped up water in the palms of their hands and thus drank were 
chosen. There were only three hundred of them, but with that little company 
Gideon went against the vast multitude of the Midianites. To each man he gave a 
trumpet, and a lamp concealed inside a pitcher. At midnight they rushed up to 
the camp of the Midianites and broke the pitchers so that the light of the lamps 
suddenly flashed out. Then they blew the trumpets, and shouted : " The sword 
of the Lord and Gideon. '* And the Midianites fled in confusion, and fought among 
themselves, and were driven out of the land. 

Abimelech* 

In all this time the Israelites frequently lapsed into sin, and worshipped idols, 
and did other evil things. After the death of Gideon they became worse than 
ever, and gave themselves up to the worship of Baal. Then Gideon's 'son, Abi- 
melech, by persuasion and bribery, got them to make him their king, and he killed 
all his brothers, except the youngest, who fled from him, in order that they might 
not be his rivals in authority. But after he had reigned three years the people of 
Schechem rebelled against him, and there was war between him and them, in which 
he finally conquered and destroyed them. The last of them took refuge in the 
temple of their idol, and Abimelech and his followers piled wood around it and 
burned them all. 

Then Abimelech went to Thebez and captured it. But there was a strong tower 
within the city and to it all the men and women fled and shut themselves in. 
Then Abimelech and his followers came up and were about to burn the tower and 
the people within it, as they had done at Schechem. But a woman, whose son he 
had killed, threw down from the top of the tower a piece of a millstone, and it struck 
Abimelech and broke his skull. Then he called upon the young man who was his 
armor-bearer and said to him, "Draw thy sword, and kill me, so that men will not 
be able to say that I was killed by a woman." And the young man thrust him 
through with his sword and he died. 

Jephthah. 

After Abimelech, Tola was Judge, and after him Jair, of both of whom little is 
known. Then the Israelites fell into worse idolatry than ever, and were abandoned 




JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 41 

by the Lord to their enemies, and were enslaved by the Philistines and Ammon- 
ites. In their distress they finally sent for Jephthah, a brave soldier whom they 
had once driven out of the land because he married a woman who did not belong to 
the congregation of Israel. They sent to him and asked him to return and be their 
leader and save them from the Ammonites. He reminded them that they had 
driven him out and ill-used him and asked them if they would make him their Judge, 
in case he did return and delivered them from the Ammonites. They promised that 
they would do so. 

Then Jephthah sent to the King of the Ammonites, and remonstrated with him 
and urged him to cease from his unjust war against Israel, but the king refused and 
then Jephthah prepared to fight him. But Jephthah first vowed that if God would 
give him victory over the Ammonites he would sacrifice to God, as a burnt offer- 
ing, whatsoever first came forth out of his house to meet him as he returned 
home in triumph. Then he fought the battle and won it, and completely sub- 
dued the Ammonites. But when he returned home his daughter, his only child, 
was the first to come out to meet him. This gave him unspeakable sorrow, 
but he kept his vow and sacrificed her. After him Ibzan and Elon and Abdon 
were successively Judges of Israel, and then the Israelites were conquered by the 
Philistines again. 

Samson. 

There was a good man in Israel named Manoah, and he and his wife had no 
child. But the angel of God appeared to them and promised them a son, who should 
take the vow of a Nazarite. That is, he should never drink wine, nor cut his hair, 
and should be a servant of God all his life. So a son was born to them and they 
named him Samson. And when he was grown to be a man he loved a daughter of 
a certain Philistine and determined to marry her. On his way to be married he was 
attacked by a lion, which he caught in his hands and killed with ease. A few days 
later he found a swarm of bees had settled on the lion's body and made honey there, 
and he took some of the honey and ate it. Then he gave a marriage feast to thirty 
of the Philistines, which lasted seven days. He gave them a riddle to guess, and 
agreed that if they guessed it he should give each of them a suit of clothes, but if 
they could not guess it, each of them should give him a suit. The riddle was, " Out 
of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness." It re- 
ferred to the honey he had taken from the body of the lion. They could not guess 
it, and at last went to Samson's wife and told her she must coax him to tell her the 
riddle and then come and tell them, and if she did not do so they would burn her to 
death. In her fear she did so, and they told Samson the answer, and he lost the 
wager. But he knew his wife had told them. 

Then Samson began his warfare against the Philistines, to set Israel free. He 
went to the city of Askelon and slew thirty Philistines, and took their clothes to 
pay the forfeit of his riddle. Next he caught three hundred foxes and tied firebrands 
to their tails and turned them loose in the fields of the Philistines, and thus burned 
their orchards and vineyards. In revenge, the Philistines took his wife and her 
3 



42 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

father and burned them to death. Then the Israelites became afraid, and delivered 
Samson up to the Philistines. But in the midst of the camp of the Philistines he 
broke his bonds, and snatching up the jaw-bone of an ass he slew a thousand men 
and escaped. Next he went to Gaza, and the Philistines shut the city gates against 
him. But he took up the great gates and their posts upon his shoulders and carried 
them far away. 

Unfortunately he next fell under the spell of a wicked woman named Delilah, 
whom the Philistines had bribed to betray him. She tried for a long time to find out 
the secret of his strength, but he would not tell her. Finally, however, she pre- 
vailed upon him and he confessed to her that if his hair should be cut he would lose 
his strength. Thereupon, when he next fell asleep, she cut off his hair, and his 
strength departed, and she delivered him up to the Philistines. They did not kill 
him, but put him in prison, made him blind, and set him to grinding corn in a mill. 
After a time he repented of his sin, and his hair grew, and his strength was restored 
to him, but he did not tell the Philistines of it. One day the Philistines made a 
great feast in honor of their god, Dagon, and brought Samson out of prison to make 
sport for them. They put him between the two great pillars of stone that supported 
the centre of the roof of the house in which were assembled all the great lords 
and ladies of Philistia. Then Samson grasped the pillars with his hands and prayed 
for strength, and dragged the pillars down, and the roof fell. And Samson himself 
and all the multitude of the Philistines were killed in the ruins. 

Ruth. 

In the time of the Judges there was a famine in Canaan, and one of the Israel- 
ites went from his home at Bethlehem to live in the land of Moab till the famine was 
past. There he died, leaving his wife, Naomi, and his two daughters-in-law, Orpah 
and Ruth. When the famine was over, Naomi returned to Bethlehem, but asked 
her daughters-in-law if they would not rather stay in Moab, which had always 
been their home. Orpah decided that she would, but Ruth returned with Naomi, 
saying: "Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee ; 
for whither thou goest, I will go ; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge ; thy 
people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, 
and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but 
death part thee and me." 

So Naomi and Ruth returned to Bethlehem, and Ruth went to glean in the corn- 
fields of a rich kinsman of theirs named Boaz. And Boaz noticed her and inquired 
who she was, and when he found out that she was Naomi's daughter he gave her 
much grain, so that she prospered. And after a time he loved her and made her his 
wife. And they had a son, whom they called Obed. 

Samuel. 

There was a man named Elkanah, whose wife was named Hannah, who went 
every year to Shiloh to offer sacrifices. But they were unhappy because they were 
childless. One day Hannah prayed long and earnestly for a son, and vowed that if 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 43 

she might have one she would make him a Nazarite, as Samson was. Her prayer 
was answered, and she called her son Samuel, and took him to Shiloh and left him 
with the High Priest, Eli, to be a servant of the Tabernacle. The boy grew up to 
be devout and pious, and was obedient to Eli. One night he heard a voice calling 
him by name, and arose and said to Eli, " Here am I" ; for he supposed Eli had 
called him. But Eli had not. A second time it occurred, and a third, and then 
they knew it was God who was calling him. And God made him a prophet. 

Now came on a war with the Philistines, and the Israelites were defeated. In 
their despair, they sent for the Ark of the Covenant, to carry it before their army, 
in hope that it would give them the victory. The two sons of Eli, who, though 
priests, were wicked men, went with it. It was an unlawful thing thus to take the 
Ark away from the Tabernacle, and it displeased God so that he caused the Israel- 
ites to be defeated. They were utterly routed, and thirty thousand of them slain, 
including the two sons of Eli, and the Ark was captured by the Philistines. And 
when Eli heard it, he fell down dead. The Philistines took the Ark to their city of 
Ashdod, and put it in the temple of Dagon. The next day they found the great 
image of Dagon had fallen down on its face before the Ark. They set it up again, 
and the next day it was not only fallen but broken. Then a great pestilence came 
upon them, and many died. So they knew it was because they had taken the Ark 
from the Israelites, and they wanted to get rid of it. Wherever they took it, evil 
came upon them. At last they put the Ark upon a cart, and hitched two cows 
before it, and let them go without a driver. And the cattle took it back to Israel. 

Saul. 

Samuel succeeded Eli as High Priest and also as Judge over Israel, and he ruled 
righteously for many years. But when he became old, and his two sons proved 
themselves wicked men, the people clamored for a king. Samuel warned them that 
it would be a great mistake, but they persisted, so at last God commanded Samuel to 
chose a king for them. He sent to Samuel for that purpose a young man named 
Saul. Now Saul was the tallest and one of the handsomest men in all the land, and 
the people accepted him gladly, and Samuel anointed him king. Then the Ammon- 
ites attacked Israel, and Saul commanded every able-bodied man to come out and 
help repulse them. In that way he raised a great army, and destroyed the Ammon- 
ites. But his rule was so arbitrary that the people began to fear that Saul would be 
not only their king but their oppressor. 

After a couple of years Saul formed a standing army, and made his son 
Jonathan one of its commanders. The Philistines came up, and defeated them, 
and Saul and Jonathan were put to flight. Then Saul sent for Samuel to come and 
offer sacrifices, to gain the favor of God. But Samuel was slow in coming, and 
Saul impatiently offered the sacrifices himself. That was unlawful, and Samuel 
rebuked him for it, and told him the Lord would deprive him of his kingdom for 
it. But still God gave the Israelites victory. Jonathan and a single follower 
entered the Philistine's camp and did great slaughter, and an earthquake threw 
the Philistine army into confusion, and Saul and his army came up and completed 
the victory. 



44 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

David and Goliath* 

After this Saul sinned more and more, and at last God commanded Samuel to 
go to Bethlehem and find a man named Jesse, son of Obed, and anoint one of his 
sons to be king in Saul's place. Samuel did so and found Jesse and his seven sons. 
And the Lord said unto Samuel, " Look not on his countenance, or on the height of 
his stature : For the Lord seeth not as man seeth ; for man looketh on the outward 
appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart." So Samuel would not choose any 
one of the seven, but asked Jesse if he had no other children. And Jesse said that he 
had another son, the youngest, who was in the fields watching the sheep. Samuel 
made him send for him, and when he came saw at once that it was he whom God 
intended for the next king of Israel. So he anointed the boy, whose name was 
David, and the spirit of the Lord came upon David from that day forward. But the 
spirit of the Lord departed from Saul and an evil spirit began to trouble him. His 
attendants told him that he could get relief from the evil spirits only by having some 
one play the harp before him. So Saul said to his servants, " Provide me now a 
man that can play well, and bring him to me." Then one of them said that David, 
the son of Jesse, was a fine player, and Saul bade them send for him. So David 
came to Saul and Saul was pleased with him and made him his armor-bearer. And 
it came to pass that when the evil spirit troubled Saul, David took a harp and played 
upon it, and the evil spirit was driven out and Saul was refreshed and made well. 
But Saul did not know that David had been anointed to be king in his place. 

Now the Philistines came up again, led by a gigantic warrior named Goliath, 
who was much larger and stronger than any other man in all the land. This giant 
daily defied the Israelites to come out and fight him, and Saul and all Israel were 
afraid of him. For a time no one could be found who would attempt to cope with 
Goliath. But one day David visited the camp and asked what was the matter. 
And when he heard he said he would go out and fight the Philistine. Saul tried to 
dissuade him, but David told how he had killed a lion and a bear with his hands, and 
said he was able, with the strength of the Lord, to overthrow Goliath. Then Saul 
gave David his own armor and sword with which to fight, but David declined to use 
them. He took nothing but his staff and a sling and five smooth stones. When 
Goliath saw David come against him he scorned him and cursed him. But David 
defied him in the name of God, and put a stone in his sling, and slung it, and struck 
the Philistine on his forehead. And Goliath staggered and fell before the blow, and 
David ran up and drew Goliath's own sword from its scabbard and cut off his head 
with it. And when the Philistines saw that their champion was dead they fled in 
confusion, and Saul's army pursued them and routed them utterly. 

The Passing of Saul. 

David now lived with Saul all the time, and became the closest friend of 

Jonathan. But it came to pass that when the army returned from the war the 

people cried aloud, "Saul hath slain his thousands, but David his ten thousands." 

This made Saul jealous and angry, to think that David should be praised more 




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STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 47 

highly than he. So the next time David came before him to play upon the harp 
Saul threw a spear at him and tried to kill him, but David escaped, and after that 
Saul pretended to be his friend again and gave him his daughter Michal for his wife. 
Then again Saul planned to kill David and commanded Jonathan to do the deed. 
But Jonathan would not and warned David of his danger, and helped him to escape. 
Again and again Saul tried to kill David, but in vain. David found refuge with the 
High Priest, and then Saul commanded that all the Priests should be slain. Then 
David went elsewhere and was pursued by Saul all over the land. Even in the 
wilderness Saul pursued him. And Saul even thought of killing his own son, 
Jonathan, because he was David's friend. On more than one occasion David had 
an opportunity to kill Saul as the latter lay asleep, but he refrained. But he let 
Saul know that he had spared him. At the cave of Adullam David gathered together 
a great number of lawless and discontented men and put himself at their head and 
raided about the country with them. 

At last the Philistines rose in great force against Saul, and Saul was afraid of 
defeat. He called upon the Lord, but got no answer. So he disguised himself and 
went to a woman at Endor, who was a witch, and got her to call up the spirit of 
Samuel, who had been dead for some years. Saul asked Samuel for advice and 
help. But Samuel gave him none, but told him he would be defeated by the Philis- 
tines and would himself be killed. Then Saul went to battle and the Philistines 
defeated him and killed Jonathan and two of Saul's other sons, and Saul himself 
was wounded. Then, in order that he might not be captured or killed by the 
Philistines Saul took a sword and fell upon it and died. So the prophesy of Samuel 
was fulfilled, and David became king. 

David King: of Israel. 

David was far away, but the news soon came to him. He was greatly grieved 
to hear of the death of his dear friend Jonathan, and also of that of Saul, although 
the latter had been his bitter enemy. 

He lamented over them with great lamentation, saying: "The beauty of Israel 
is slain upon the high places. How are the mighty fallen ! Tell it not in Gath, pub- 
lish it not in the streets of Askelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice. 
Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they 
were not divided. They were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. 
How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle ! O Jonathan, thou wast 
slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan. Very 
pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished ! " After 
this, at the command of God, David went up to the city of Hebron, and the men of 
the tribe of Judah gathered about him, and they anointed David King over Israel, 
But a son of Saul, named Ish-bosheth, arose and proclaimed himself king, and most 
of the tribes of Israel, excepting that of Judah, followed him. But two of David's 
captains went and slew him, and then all the tribes recognized David as king. 



CHAPTER III. 



FROM JERUSALEM TO BETHLEHEM. 

absalom — accession of solomon— glories of the kingdom — the queen of 

Sheba— Division of the Kingdom— Elijah, The Tishbite— Naboth's 

Vineyard— Sennacherib— in Captivity— Daniel and the 

Lions— The Return to Jerusalem-Esther— 

the prophets-the apocrypha. 




,AVID resolved to make Jerusalem the capital of his kingdom. So he 
engaged skilful builders in wood and stone from Hiram, King of Tyre, 
and built a fine palace. Then he brought the Ark of the Covenant 
thither from the city of Kirjath-jearim, where it had been since its return from the 
Philistines. He wished to build a fine temple in which to place the Ark, but God, 
through the prophet Nathan, forebade him, saying that privilege was to be reserved 
for David's son and successor. So the Ark had to be kept in a tent as before. 
David also remembered his dear friend Jonathan, and inquired whether any of his 
children were still living. Finding that one of them was, but was hopelessly lame, 
he sent for him and had him live at the Court in luxury all his life. David greatly 
beautified the city of Jerusalem and did much for the civilization of the Israelites. 
He was a fine musician, and also a great poet, and wrote many psalms or hymns. 

But David was also guilty of evil deeds. He conceived an unlawful love for 
Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah, one of his army officers. In order that he might have 
her for himself, he contrived to have Uriah exposed to great danger and killed in 
battle, whereupon he took Bathsheba for his wife. Nathan, at God's command, 
administered a bitter rebuke to him for this, and made him realize his guilt. A son 
was born to David and Bathsheba, and David loved him greatly. But the child died, 
and David mourned him bitterly, saying " I shall go to him, but he shall not come 
back to me." Afterward another son was born to them, who was named Solomon, 
and who grew up to be David's successor on the throne. 

Absalom. 

Another of David's sons was Absalom, who grew up to be a very handsome 
young man, and a great favorite with the people of Israel. But he was proud and 
self-willed, and presently quarreled with his father, and began to plot to overthrow 
him and gain the throne for himself. So strong a revolt did he arouse that David 
had to flee from Jerusalem for safety, and Absalom pursued him with an army, and 
would have killed him. But after a time David made a stand and gave battle, and 

4* 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 49 

defeated Absalom's army with great slaughter. He gave strict orders, however, that 
no one was for any consideration to do Absalom himself any harm. But as Absalom 
rode under a tree his long hair caught in a branch and he was dragged by it from 
the saddle and left hanging there. One of David's soldiers saw him and went and 
told Joab, the commander of the army. Joab asked him why he did not kill him, 
saying he would have given him a great reward for so doing. The man replied that 
he would not, for any reward, injure Absalom, because David had commanded 
that he should not be hurt. Thereupon Joab went himself and thrust three spears 
through Absalom and killed him. 

When the news of this was brought to David the king went up to his private 
chamber and wept bitterly, and said : "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Ab- 
salom ! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son !" And so 
the victory was turned into mourning among all the people, for they heard how the 
king was grieved at the death of his son and they mourned with him. 

After that David grew proud of his military prowess, and took a census of his 
fighting men, and found he had no less than 1,300,000 subjects able to bear 
arms. This displeased the Lord, and he sent a pestilence upon the nation. That 
made David realize his sinfulness, and he offered sacrifices on an altar on Mount 
Moriah, and prayed for mercy and forgiveness. He also bought the field on the 
mountain top, and brought thither material for the building of a great temple, but 
left the actual work of building it for his successor to perform. 

Accession of Solomon^ 

Finding himself growing old and near the end of life, David made his son 
Solomon his heir and successor, and had him proclaimed king. This he did before 
he died, because another son, Adonijah, was plotting to seize the throne. Then he 
gave Solomon minute directions for the building of the temple, and said to him: "I 
go the way of all the earth. Be thou strong therefore, and show thyself a man, 
and keep the charge of the Lord thy God, to walk in His ways, to keep His statutes 
and His commandments, and His judgments, and His testimonies, as it is written 
in the Law of Moses, that thou mayest prosper in all thou doest, and whither- 
soever thou turnest thyself ; that the Lord may continue His work which He spake 
concerning me." So David died and was buried at Jerusalem, and Solomon reigned 
in his place. 

Solomon was king over all Israel, and he obeyed the laws of God, and greatly 
prospered. He married a daughter of Pharaoh, king of Egypt, and became great 
and powerful among the rulers of the earth. One night at Gibeon, God appeared 
to him in a dream and bade him ask what he would and it should be granted unto 
him. And Solomon answered: "Give Thy servant an understanding heart to judge 
Thy people, that I may discern between good and bad." And the speech pleased 
the Lord, and God said unto him : " Because thou hast asked this thing, and hast 
not asked for thyself long life, neither hast asked riches for thyself, nor has asked 
the life of thine enemies, but hast asked for thyself understanding to discern 



5o STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

judgment ; behold, I have done according to thy words. Lo, I have given thee a 
wise and an understanding heart, so that there was none like thee before thee, 
neither after thee shall any arise like unto thee. And I have also given thee that 
which thou hast not asked, both riches, and honor ; so that there shall not be any 
among the kings like unto thee all thy days. And if thou wilt walk in My ways, to 
keep My statutes and My commandments, as thy father David did walk, then I will 
lengthen thy days." 

After this Solomon showed great wisdom in his government. There came to 
him one day two women, disputing over the ownership of a child. Each declared 
it was hers. Then Solomon said, " Bring me a sword." And they brought him a 
sword, and he said ''Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and 
half to the other." Then spake the woman to whom the child really belonged, and 
said, " O my lord, give her the living child and in no wise slay it." But the other 
said, " Let it be neither mine nor thine, but divide it." Then the king answered and 
said, "Give her the living child and in no wise slay it. She is its mother." And 
all Israel heard of the judgment which the king had judged, and they feared the 
king, for they saw that the wisdom of God was in him. 

Glories of the Kingdom. 

Very great and glorious was the kingdom of Solomon. The king had 40,000 
stalls of horses for his chariots, and 12,000 horsemen. And God gave Solomon 
wisdom excelling the wisdom of all other men in the world, and his fame spread 
through all nations. He was the author of three thousand proverbs, and he wrote 
more than a thousand songs ; and wise men from all parts of the world came to 
visit him to learn of him. 

Then Hiram, king of Tyre, sent to Solomon and offered to help him with 
workmen in the building of the Temple. Solomon accepted the offer and many 
thousands of men were set at work on the splendid edifice. It was built of stone and 
cedar wood, and all overlaid with gold. When it was finished, the Ark of the Coven- 
ant was placed in it and many sacrifices of thanksgiving were offered upon its altar. 

The Queen of Sheba. 

Solomon also built a great navy, and sent his ships to all parts of the known 
world. Some of them went as far as Ophir, in South Africa, and brought back rich 
stores of gold. This attracted the attention of the Queen of Sheba, and she visited 
Jerusalem to see what manner of a king Solomon was. She came to Jerusalem 
with a great train of followers, and with camels bearing spices and gold and precious 
stones. And she talked with him and he revealed his wisdom unto her. And when 
she had talked with him, and learned his wisdom, and seen the splendor of his 
house and the Temple, she said : " It was a true report that I heard in mine own 
land of thy acts and of thy wisdom. Behold, the half was not told me. Thy wisdom 
and prosperity exceed the fame which I heard. Happy are thy men, happy are 
these thy servants, which stand continually before thee and that hear thy wisdom. 
Blessed be the Lord thy God, which deli^hteth in thee, to set thee on the throne of 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 51 

Israel : Because the Lord loved Israel forever, therefore made He thee king, to do 
judgment and justice." Then the Queen and Solomon gave each other rich 
presents and she returned to her own country. 

It is related that Solomon's throne was made of pure ivory covered with pure 
gold. All the vessels of his house and of the Temple were pure gold. None of 
them were of silver, for silver was not considered worthy of such use. 

But in the later years of his life Solomon fell into evil ways. He married many 
wives, and forsook the faith of his fathers and became an idolator. Wherefore the 
Lord said unto Solomon, "For as much as this is done of thee, and thou hast not 
kept My statutes, I will surely rend the kingdom from thee, and will give it to thy 
servant. Notwithstanding in thy days I will not do it for David, thy father's sake ; 
but I will rend it out of the hand of thy son. Howbeit I will not rend away all the 
kingdom, but will give one tribe to thy son for David My servant's sake, and for 
Jerusalem's sake, which I have chosen." Then there arose rebellions in the land, 
and Solomon died amid many troubles and forebodings, and Rehoboam, his son, 
reigned in his stead. 

Division of the Kingdom. 

Rehoboam was a haughty and tyrannical king, and soon a great rebellion arose 
against him. The two tribes of Judah and Benjamin remained faithful to him, while 
the other ten tribes seceded, and chose for their king one Jeroboam. This was a 
young man whom a prophet, during the reign of Solomon, had declared should be 
king, and whom Solomon for that reason sought to kill. So there were two king- 
doms, one of Judah, and one of Israel. Now God had promised Jeroboam that if 
he would observe the law and reign righteously his kingdom should be prosperous 
and permanently established. But Jeroboam was afraid that if his people went to 
Jerusalem to worship they would be won back to Rehoboam. So he built temples 
in his own kingdom and set up golden idols for the people to worship, and forbade 
the people to go to Jerusalem to worship in the temple there. In this way great 
sin came upon the land. 

A long succession of kings reigned over each of the two kingdoms. Most of 
them were wicked men, and committed idolatries, and because of their sin many 
evils came upon the people. 

Elijah, The Tishbite. 

The worst of all the kings of Israel was Ahab, and his wife Jezebel was equally 
wicked. So God sent a prophet, Elijah, the Tishbite, to rebuke him and to tell him 
that because of his sins there should be for three years no rain nor dew in all the 
land. Then, to escape the wrath of Ahab, Elijah fled to the wilderness and was 
fed with food brought to him by the ravens. After a time the brook by the side of 
which he dwelt dried up, and then God sent him to the house of a widow living at 
Zarephath, to live there. When he got there he found her suffering from the 
famine. She had no food left but a handful of meal and a little oil. But she 
received Elijah hospitably and he blessed her, so that the supply of meal and oil 
was not exhausted but was daily renewed to supply their wants as long as the 



52 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

famine lasted. After a time her only son died, and at Elijah's prayer was restored 
to life. 

When the drought had lasted three years, and the land was solely famine- 
stricken, Elijah went to Ahab and rebuked him again for his sins and challenged 
him to bring the priests of Baal up to Mount Carmel, and summon all the people, 
and let it be decided who was at fault for the evils that had come upon the land. 
Ahab did so, and Elijah came before all the people at Mount Carmel, and said : 
" How long halt ye between two opinions ? If the Lord be God, follow Him ; but 
if Baal, then follow him." And the people answered him not a word. Then 
Elijah proposed that the priests of Baal should build an altar and offer a sacrifice 
upon it, but put no fire thereon, and he would do the same. Then they should 
pray to Baal, and he would pray to Jehovah, to send down fire and consume the 
sacrifice. " And the God that answereth by fire, let him be God." And all the 
people answered, and said : " It is well spoken." Then the prophets of Baal 
built an altar and killed a bullock, and laid it upon it, and began praying to Baal to 
send down fire. They prayed to him all day, and leaped upon the altar, and cut 
themselves with knives, according to their custom. And Elijah mocked them, and 
said : "Cry aloud, for he is a god. Either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is 
on a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked." But the whole 
day passed, and evening came, and there was no answer to their prayers. Then 
Elijah called the people nearer to him, and he built an altar of twelve stones, 
according to the law. And he killed a bullock, and placed it thereon, and then 
drenched the whole with water, to prove that he had placed no fire underneath it. 
Then at the time for the evening sacrifice, Elijah stood by the altar and prayed : 
" Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and of Israel, let it be known this day that Thou art 
God in Israel, and that I am Thy servant, and that I have done all these things at Thy 
word." Then the fire of the Lord fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the 
wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench. 
And when all the people saw it, they fell on their faces and said : "The Lord He is 
the God." And Elijah said unto them : " Take the prophets of Baal. Let not 
one of them escape." And they took them and slew them, everyone. Then at 
the word of Elijah there came a great storm of rain upon the land. 

Naboth's Vineyard. 

But Ahab did not turn from his evil ways. There was a man named Naboth 
who had a vineyard that Ahab coveted, but he would not give it nor sell it to Ahab. 
So Ahab, at Jezebel's suggestion, had Naboth falsely accused of crimes, and put to 
death. Then he seized the vineyard for his own. But Elijah came and rebuked 
him, and told him that ruin would come upon him, and that Jezebel should be killed 
and her body should be eaten by dogs. And in due time this prophesy was ful- 
filled. 

After that Elijah chose Elisha to be his successor, and then was carried up to 
heaven in a chariot of fire, letting fall his mantle upon Elisha. Then Elisha 
became the chief prophet of Israel, and performed many miracles. At Shunem he 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 53 

restored a woman's son to life. He cured Naaman, the captain of the army of the 
King of Syria, of leprosy. When an army was sent to seize him at Dotham, he 
smote all the men with blindness, and led them far away, and then restored their 
sight. At God's command, he anointed Jehu to be King of Israel, and Jehu 
put to death all of Ahab's family, thus fulfilling the prophesy of Elijah. And 
after nineteen kings had ruled over Israel, in 254 years, the end came. The 
land was conquered by the Assyrians, and all the people were carried away 
into captivity. 

Sennacherib* 

Among the kings of Judah some were good and some were bad One of the 
best of them was Hezekiah. But during his reign many evils fell upon the land. 
At one time it was invaded by Sennacherib, king of Syria, who marched into it 
with a great army. Hezekiah prayed to God for help, and God answered him 
through the lips of the prophet Isaiah, promising him that no harm should come to 
him. And that night the angel of the Lord visited the camp of Sennacherib, and 
smote all his men, so that in the morning every one of them lay dead ; and Senna- 
cherib fled back to Syria. Unfortunately, after that Hezekiah grew proud, and 
boasted of his wealth, and one day showed all the riches of his treasury to some 
visitors from Syria. Thus he excited their covetousness and it was prophesied that 
Judah should fall before the Syrians and all the treasures be taken as spoils to 
Babylon. 

Then Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, marched into the country and laid siege 
to Jerusalem, and captured it, and plundered the temple, and carried all the people 
away captive to Babylon, just as the people of the Kingdom of Israel had been. 
At this time there was a great prophet named Jeremiah, who prophesied about the 
fall of Jerusalem. He was taken prisoner by the Chaldeans, but was treated 
kindly by them and was let go to live in the land of Judah. And Jeremiah wrote 
to his brethren who were in captivity, bidding them to be patient, for in seventy 
years, he told them, they should be allowed to return to Jerusalem. 

In Captivity. 

So the Kingdom of Judah came to an end, after 388 years. While the people 
were in captivity in Babylon there arose among them a great prophet named 
Ezekiel, who saw visions and foretold what would happen in the future. And after 
telling of the woes that were to come upon the Jews, he also prophesied that one 
day they should be restored to Jerusalem. 

Daniel was another prophet, who rose to high favor in the Court of Babylon, 
because he was able to interpret a striking dream which Nebuchadnezzar had. He 
had three friends, named Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who were faithful to 
God and refused to join in the idolatrous worship of Babylon. So the king threw 
them into a furnace of fire, but they were not harmed. Thereupon the king 
declared that their God was the greatest of all gods, and decreed that He should be 
worshipped throughout the empire. 



54 STORIES OF THE BIBLE, 

After Nebuchadnezzar died, his son Belshazzar reigned in his stead. He was an 
exceedingly wicked man. One night he gave a great feast, and while he feasted a 
hand of fire wrote words upon the wall, which none could read. So they sent 
for Daniel and told him that if he could read them and interpret them, he would be 
made the third ruler in the kingdom. And Daniel read the words, "Mene, mene, 
tekel, upharsin," and said they meant that Belshazzar had been weighed in God's 
balances and found wanting, wherefore his kingdom was to be taken from him. That 
very night Cyrus, with the army of the Medes and Persians, captured the city and 
Belshazzar was slain, and Darius the Mede became king in his place. 

Daniel and the Lions. 

Darius made Daniel one of the chief rulers of the kingdom, second only to 
himself. This aroused the jealousy of the other princes and they conspired to get 
rid of Daniel. So they complained to Darius that Daniel broke the law by making 
daily prayers to God, and demanded that he be cast into a den of lions. Darius 
did not wish to punish Daniel, but had to do so because no exception could be made 
to the law. So Daniel was cast into the den. 

Then the king went to his palace, and passed the night fasting, and he could 
not sleep. And very early in the morning he hastened to the den of lions and cried 
aloud with an anxious voice to Daniel, saying, "O Daniel, servant of the living 
God, is thy God, whom thou servest continually, able to deliver thee from the 
lions?" Then said Daniel unto the King, "O King, live forever. My God hath 
sent His angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, and they have not hurt me." 
Then the king rejoiced exceedingly and had Daniel taken out of the den, and cast 
into the den in his place the men who had brought the accusation against him, and 
they were all killed by the lions. Then Darius wrote to all parts of his empire 
making a decree that all men should fear and do reverence to the God of Daniel. 
"For he is the living God, and steadfast forever, and His kingdom that which shall 
not be destroyed, and His dominion shall be even unto the end." 

The Return to Jerusalem. 

After seventy years of captivity the Jews were allowed to go back to Judah, 
as Jeremiah had prophesied. Cyrus, the king of Persia, made a proclamation that 
all who wished to return might do so, and that the Persians should assist them by 
giving them money for the journey. About 50,000 decided to return, under the 
leadership of Zerubbabel, a prince descended from King David, and Cyrus gave 
them vast stores of gold and silver. They found Jerusalem in ruins, as Nebuchad- 
nezzar had left it, and at once began to rebuild it, both the city and the temple. 

Then the Samaritans began to trouble them. These were a people who had 
been settled in the kingdom of Israel after the Israelites had been taken into 
captivity. They succeeded in persuading Artaxerxes, Cyrus's successor, that the 
Jews were rebellious, and so had the work at Jerusalem stopped for a time. But 
when Artaxerxes died, a second Darius became king, and he permitted the work to 
be resumed. He also assisted the Jews with gifts of money. So the temple and 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 57 

the city were rebuilt. Then Ezra, a great prophet, arose at Babylon, and returned 
to Jerusalem with many more of the exiles. And he restored the worship of the 
temple, and made the people obey the laws that had been given to Moses. 

Esther. 

Among the Jews who still remained in Persia, was one Mordecai, who had a 
niece named Esther. Mordecai had on one occasion saved the life of the king, 
Ahasuerus. It came to pass that the king quarreled with his queen, Vashti, and 
divorced her, and then sought another queen. Mordecai brought Esther to his 
notice, and he admired her above all other women, and married her. 

Now the king's Prime Minister was Haman, who was a proud man and wanted 
every one to bow down before him. This Mordecai refused to do, and Haman in 
his wrath determined to kill Mordecai and all his race. So he told the king that 
there was a lot of alien people in the land, who would not obey the laws and were 
constantly making trouble, and so he got the king to make a decree that they should 
all be put to death. When Mordecai heard this he was in great distress, and all the 
Jews mourned and lamented. And they appealed to Queen Esther to save them. 
And she went to the king and got him to promise that he would grant her anything 
she asked. Then she asked him to invite Haman to a banquet which she would 
give the next day, at which she would make known her request. This the king 
did. Haman was pleased to get the invitation, yet at the same time vexed because 
Mordecai would not do him reverence. So, on the advice of his friends, he built a 
high gallows, and gave orders that Mordecai should be hanged thereon. 

Now that night the king could not sleep. So, to pass away the time, he had 
the records of his reign read to him. When he heard how Mordecai had saved his 
life he asked what reward had been given to him, and the answer was, none. Just 
at that time Haman entered the palace, having come to get the king to sanction the 
hanging of Mordecai. The king at once asked him what should be done to the man 
whom the king delighted to honor. Haman thought that must refer to himself. So 
he said, "Let the royal apparel be brought which the king usually wears, and the 
horse that the king rides upon, and the royal crown from the king's head, and let 
the man whom the king delights to honor wear the robe and the crown and ride upon 
the horse, and thus be escorted about the city by one of the king's most noble 
princes, proclaiming that thus it is done to the man whom the king delighteth to 
honor." 

Then the king commanded Haman to do all these things to Mordecai ; and so 
Haman had to see his enemy honored and he himself had to lead his horse about 
the city and make the proclamation in his honor. 

The next day Haman went to the banquet with the king and queen, and the 
king asked Esther what the request was which she wished to make of him, declaring 
that it should be granted, no matter what it might be. And she asked him to spare 
her life and the lives of her people. "For," she said, "we are sold, I and my 
people, to be destroyed, to be slain, and to perish." Then the king demanded, 
"Who is he, and where is he, that durst presume in his heart to do so?" And 



58 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

Esther said, "The adversary and enemy is this wicked Haman." Then Haman 
was greatly afraid and prayed to the queen for mercy. But the king commanded 
him to be taken out and put to death. So they hanged Haman upon the very 
gallows that he had prepared for Mordecai. 

But the decree for the destruction of the Jews could not be recalled. So the 
king made Mordecai Prime Minister in Haman's place, and through him issued 
another decree, warning the Jews of their peril and bidding them defend them- 
selves. And the Jews did so, and were preserved, and the anniversary of their 
preservation has ever since been observed in the great Feast of Purim. 

The Prophets. 

Another great prophet who went up from Persia to aid in the restoration of 
Jerusalem was Nehemiah. It was he who by his energy got the people to rebuild 
the city wall, and make Jerusalem strong against its enemies, and he did much to 
bring them back to the faithful observance of the law. 

The prophet Jonah was sent by God to preach to the city of Nineveh. He did 
not want to do so, and went on board a ship bound for another place. Then God 
sent a great storm, so that the ship was in danger of destruction, and Jonah was 
compelled to confess to the sailors that he was disobeying the Lord and that the 
storm was sent on his account. So they threw him overboard, and the storm ceased. 
And Jonah was swallowed by a great fish, and after three days was thrown out 
upon dry land again. After that he went to Nineveh, and preached, and the people 
repented of their sins. 

Among the greatest of the prophets at and after the time of the captivity was 
Isaiah ; and others were Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, 
Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi. 

The Apocrypha. 

Between the story of the Old Testament and that of the New there is a consid- 
erable gap in history. This is largely covered by the books known as the Apocry- 
pha, and also by the history of Josephus and various Jewish traditions. It appears 
that in about the year 331 B. C., Alexander the Great visited Jerusalem, when he 
was conquering Asia, to punish the Jews for refusing to transfer their allegiance to 
him, when he summoned them to do so during his siege of Tyre. As he approached 
Jerusalem the High Priest, clad in robes of purple and white, and accompanied by a 
train of priests and citizens clad in white, went out to meet him. Alexander was 
impressed by the spectacle, and did reverence to the High Priest and thereafter 
showed the Jews many favors. A few years later Palestine became a kind of neu- 
tral territory between the rival empires of Syria and Egypt, and enjoyed a consid- 
erable degree of independence. A great many of the Jews migrated to Egypt and 
formed an important colony at Alexandria. 

From 223 to 198 B. C., Antiochus the Great alternately won and lost Palestine 
in a succession of wars with Egypt. He was finally successful in retaining posses- 
sion of it and was hailed by the Jews as their deliverer from subjection to Egypt, 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 59 

and confirmed upon them all the privileges Alexander had granted. Under Antiochus 
Epiphanes the priesthood was greatly corrupted. Antiochus made use of his money 
and the power of his army to bribe the unscrupulous and put to death the faithful, 
until finally he established heathenism in the holy city. He forbade the use of the 
Mosaic ritual, promulgated a series of infamous decrees, forbade the worship of God, 
burned all the books of the law, placed a statue of Jupiter on the most holy altar in 
the temple, and finally forced some of the Jews publicly to eat the flesh of swine, 
sacrificed on that altar in honor of Jupiter. Many of the Jews refused and were put 
to death with horrible tortures. 

Then Mathathias, a priest of the Hasmonaean family, at the city of Modin, with 
his five sons, raised their rebellion. They threw down the heathen altar, fled to the 
mountains, and raised the standard of liberty. His eldest son was named Judas 
Maccabaeus. Under him the insurgents were victorious. Antiochus died, stricken 
by God with a terrible disease. The Maccabees recovered Jerusalem, purified the 
temple, and restored its worship. For a number of years they held sway over the 
country, but then were compelled to make terms with the Romans, under whose 
protection, however, they enjoyed considerable freedom. Julius Caesar made a 
number of decrees in their favor, granting them a large measure of home rule and 
permitting them to retain and practice all their peculiar customs. A Roman officer 
was, however, stationed at Jerusalem, to maintain the general political government. 
The man who held this office was Herod, the descendant of a Philistine slave. He 
presently made himself nominally king of the Jews, though of course subject to 
Rome. He was a heathen at heart, a savage in character, and a brute in passions. 
So he made use of his position to betray and degrade the country, to foster immor- 
ality, to corrupt the priesthood, and break down the Jewish religion. He rebuilt the 
temple on a more splendid scale than ever before, intending it to be the proud mon- 
ument of his dynasty. But it was really the whitened sepulchre that concealed the 
foul impurity of his family and the loathsome corruption into which he had plunged 
his people. 

The loss of political liberty drove the Jews to seek consolation in religious phil- 
osophy. Accordingly several different sects arose among them and they began pay- 
ing more attention than ever before to the minute details of the letter of the law. 
Such was the political and religious state of the country and the people at the time 
of the birth of Christ. 



CHAPTER IV. 



FROM BETHLEHEM TO CALVARY. 
IN THE TEMPLE— JOHN THE BAPTIST— BAPTISM OF JESUS— CALLING THE DlSCIPLES- 

The first Miracle— Cleansing the Temple— Healing the Sick— Matthew the 

PUBLICAN— SENDING FORTH APOSTLES— THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT— RAISING 

the dead— Stilling the Tempest-Feeding the Multitude— Jesus walks 

ON THE SEA-THE TRANSFIGURATION-THE LAST VISIT TO JERUSALEM— AT 

BETHANY— THE RAISING OF LAZARUS— HUMILITY TAUGHT— ENTERING 

JERUSALEM— THE PLOT OF JUDAS-THE LAST SUPPER— PETER'S 

Warmng-The Lord's Supper-Gethsemane-The Betrayal 

—THE TRIAL— PETER'S DENIAL-DEATH OF JUDAS— BEFORE 
PILATE— THE CRUCIFIXION— THE BURIAL— THE RESUR- 
rection— the ascension-pentecost-persecu- 
tions— St. Paul— death of Herod-Pauland 
Barnabas— Paul and Silas-On mars 
Hill— Corinth and Ephesus— before 

FELIX AND FESTUS-THE VOYAGE TO 
ROME— ST. JOHN AT PATMOS. 



N the days of Csesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome, there was peace in all the 
world. A general census and taxation of all the people was ordered in Pales- 
tine, and all flocked to the cities for the purpose. Among those who went to 
Bethlehem were Joseph, a carpenter, and Mary, his wife and they found the hotels 
so crowded that they had to seek shelter in a stable, where, that night, a son was 
born to them, according to a promise that had been made to them by an angel. That 
same night, outside the city, some shepherds were watching their sheep, when 
suddenly a bright light appeared, and they were frightened. Then an angel spake 
to them, telling them not to be afraid, for he brought them good tidings of great joy, 
that there was born in the city a Saviour, Christ the Lord. He told them how and 
where they might find Him; and then suddenly there was with the angel a multitude 
of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest; and 
on earth peace, good will toward men." They found the stable without difficulty, 
and entering in, saw Joseph and Mary, with the Babe in the manger. They told 
them of all they had heard and seen, and then went back to their flocks, praising God. 
Then there arrived in the city Wise Men, or Magi, from Arabia. These men 
had heard that a king of the Jews was expected; and one night as they were watch- 
ing the heavens they saw a bright star, which was the sign of some great event, and 
made up their minds that it indicated the birth of the King of the Jews. They asked 
not whether the King of the Jews was born, but where He was born, and then told 
the people that they had seen His star in the East, and had come to worship Him. 

60 




TEMPTATION OF CHRIST 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 63 

They unpacked their beasts, and, going into the house, fell down before Mary 
and the young Child, and worshipped Him. They then opened their treasures and 
presented their gifts — gold, frankincense and myrrh. 

God appeared to Joseph in a dream, warning him that Herod the King meant to 
kill the Child, and told him to flee into Egypt. Then Herod ordered all the children 
in Bethlehem and its neighborhood, under two years old, to be put to death. But 
Joseph and Mary lived safely with their Child in Egypt for two years or more, until 
Herod died, when the Lord again appeared to Joseph in a dream, and told him to 
return to the land of Israel, where he settled in the town of Nazareth. Here Joseph 
plied his trade as a carpenter. 

In the Temple. 

Luke tells us that "the Child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with 
wisdom ; and the grace of God was upon Him." Every year His parents went up 
to Jerusalem to attend the Passover. But they did not take Him until He was 
twelve years old. On the way back home, after the festival, they missed Him, and 
went back to the Temple, where they found Him in one of the courts, surrounded by 
the doctors and rabbis. Jesus was putting questions to the learned men such as 
they had never been asked before ; and in His own answers to their questions was 
showing such knowledge that they wondered greatly. Mary addressed Him, "Son, 
why hast Thou so dealt with us ? Behold, Thy father and I have sought Thee 
sorrowing." He said, " How is it that ye sought me ? Knew you not that I must 
be about my Father's business ? " But they understood not what He meant. 

John the Baptist. 

In the wilderness, somewhere on the eastern bank of the river Jordan, John the 
Baptist retired and lived away from the busy haunts of men. He was the cousin of 
our Lord. It was foretold that he would be the forerunner of the Saviour, that he 
would prepare the Jews for the coming of their Messiah. He lived in the wilderness, 
away from the towns, that he might the better contemplate his great work, and be 
fitted by God for it. Hence, his dress was coarse and his food simple. His coat 
was made of the shaggy hair of camels, woven into a rough cloth, and fastened in 
at the waist with a leathern girdle; his food was principally the locust and wild honey. 

The Jews at Jerusalem, hearing of this wonderful preacher, sent messengers to 
ask him whether he was really the Saviour, and this thought also arose in the minds 
of many that heard him. But John told them who he was, that he was " the voice 
•of one crying in the wilderness," as their prophet Isaiah had foretold. He further 
said that Christ was so mighty that he was not worthy to do the most humble 
service for Him — to unloose His shoes ; that he could only baptize with water, but 
that Christ would baptize those who accepted Him with the Holy Ghost, but those 
who rejected Him with fire. 

Baptism of Jesus. 

Then Jesus came to John to be baptized; and afterward, when he was going up 
out of the water, the heavens were opened unto Him for His encouragement and 



64 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

joy, and the Holy Spirit came down and brooded over him like a dove, which is 
always an emblem of gentleness, meekness, and purity. And then God's voice 
spoke : " This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." 

Soon after this, Jesus retired into a desert place for meditation and prayer 
before he began his public ministry, and fasted forty days and forty nights. Then 
Satan came to Him, and tempting Him through His hunger, said : " If Thou be the Son 
of God, command that these stones be made bread." Jesus answered him by quot- 
ing from the Old Testament : " Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every 
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God." Then the devil took Jesus to 
Jerusalem, and placed Him on a pinnacle of the Temple, and told Jesus to cast 
Himself down, and misapplied a text of Scripture to support his plea. But Jesus 
repelled the temptation by another text, and said : " Thou shalt not tempt the 
Lord, thy God." Again he took Jesus up into a high mountain, and offered Him all 
He could see if He would but worship him. But Jesus drove him from His presence, 
and said : " Get thee hence, Satan : for it is written, thou shalt worship the Lord, 
the God, and Him only shalt thou serve." The devil left Him, and angels at 
once came and ministered unto Him. 

Calling: the Disciples. 

One day John was with two of his disciples, when Jesus passed by, and he 
pointed Him out to them, saying : " Behold, the Lamb of God ! " They at once 
left John and followed Jesus, who turned round and asked them what they sought. 
They replied: " Master, where dwellest Thou?" Jesus said: "Come and 
see." They spent the remainder of the day with Him, and he convinced them 
that He was the Messiah. One of them, Andrew, felt anxious that his brother 
Simon should share the privilege that he had enjoyed, and with true brotherly love 
brought him to Jesus. 

On the next day, Jesus, on His way to Galilee, found Philip. He went with 
Jesus, but, like Andrew, did not wish alone to have the blessing, so went for Nath- 
aniel, and told him that he had found Him of whom Moses and the prophets wrote, 
Jesus of Nazareth. 

The partners of Simon, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, were also called. 
They were to give up their calling as fishermen and He would make them fishers of 
men. 

The First Miracle. 

On the third day after our Lord's return into Galilee, there was a marriage at 
Cana, a small town a few miles north of Nazareth. Perhaps the bride or bride- 
groom was some relative of Mary's, as she was one of the chief guests. Jesus also 
was invited, and his disciples, Philip and Nathaniel, who was a resident of the 
town. The feast began and went on smoothly enough until the wine ran short, 
and it was evident that not enough had been provided. There were standing near 
six large waterpots. Jesus directed the servants to fill these vessels with water, 
and when they had done so, He said unto them, "Draw out now, and bear unto the 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 65 

governor of the feast. " He tasted the wine, and at once perceived that it was far 
better than any previously used. This was the first miracle which Jesus did. 

Cleansing the Temple. 

Next Jesus went to Jerusalem to keep the feast of the Passover. On entering 
the outer court of the Temple He was grieved to see that they had made a market 
of this part of God's house. Oxen, sheep and doves were needful for the sacrifices, 
and it was a convenience for those who came from a distance to be able to buy 
what they wanted at Jerusalem ; but it was a desecration of the Temple to carry on 
sales within its court. Then there were money-changers, who seemed to have 
been allowed to place their tables in the court of the Gentiles. Jesus quickly made 
a whip of small cords and drove them all out of the Temple. The sheep and the 
oxen were driven out, the tables of the money-changers were thrown down, and the 
money scattered over the ground; and then, with words full of righteous indignation, 
He said, "Take these things hence; make not my Father's house a house of 
merchandise. " 

Jerusalem being now filled with people from all parts, Jesus took the opportunity 
of making himself known as the Messiah, and of working many miracles. Many 
believed on Him, and carried back with them the tidings of what they had seen and 
heard to remote parts of the country. But there was one more illustrious than the 
others, Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews, who was convinced from the miracles that 
Jesus did, that he must be a teacher sent by God. He belonged to the Sanhedrim, 
or Jewish council, a court consisting of seventy -two members, chief priests, elders, 
and scribes, with the high priest at its head. Nicodemus, afraid or ashamed to have 
it known that he sought Jesus, came to him by night. Jesus unfolded to him the 
doctrines of the new birth : that we were born in sin, but that we must be born 
again of the Holy Spirit. Nicodemus was astonished, and thought Jesus referred to 
being born again into this life; but Jesus told him it was being born unto life 
eternal. 

Not long after this, John the Baptist suffered for his faithful preaching. King 
Herod Antipas had fallen in love with Herodias, his brother Philip's wife, and had 
married her contrary to the law. For this, John reproved Herod, who, wishing to 
silence his accuser, had him seized and imprisoned in his castle of Macherus, east of 
the Dead Sea, and afterwards put him to death. 

Healing the Sick. 

Jesus went to Galilee, where many that had seen him at Jerusalem flocked 
round him, anxious to see and hear all they could. Amongst others that had heard 
of the miracles was a nobleman living at Capernaum. He had a son lying danger- 
ously ill. As soon as he heard of the arrival of Jesus at Cana, he hastened to Him, 
and besought Him that He would come down to his house and heal his son ere he 
died. 

Jesus told him to go his way, assuring him that his son was healed. This was 
not the kind of answer the nobleman expected. He thought that Jesus should 



66 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

return with him in his chariot to his house, and then heal his son ; but on his way 
home he met some of his servants who had set out to meet their master, and tell 
him that his son was cured. He inquired at what hour his son began to get better. 
The servants' answer was : " Yesterday, at the seventh hour, the fever left him." 
So the father knew that it was just the exact hour of the day before when Jesus 
said: " Thy son liveth." 

Jesus went to Nazareth, where He had been brought up, and where He now, 
no doubt, met many who had known Him in the days of His childhood and youth. 
But he was ill-received there, and so went on to Capernaum. 

Matthew, the Publican. 

As Jesus was passing along, He saw a publican sitting at the roadside, attend- 
ing to his duties of receiving taxes, and bade him rise and follow Him. Levi, or Mat- 
thew, for this was his name, immediately obeyed : he left his books and his weights 
and measures, and the money he had yet to collect ; he left all and followed Jesus. 

After this there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 
Near the Temple was the Pool of Bethesda, appropriately called " The House of 
Mercy ; " around it were five porches, or covered walks, which were now crowded 
with poor people. Among the crowd that lay there was one poor man who had 
been afflicted thirty-eight years. Jesus tried to cheer him, and to see if he still had 
any hope left. He said: "Wilt thou be made whole ? " The man replied by 
relating his experience, that he had no one when the water was troubled to help 
him down into the pool ; that he was too infirm to get there quickly without assist- 
ance, and that every one seemed so intent himself on reaching the pool, that by the 
time he got there the waters were stilled, and were supposed then to have lost their 
healing power. Jesus said unto him : "Arise, take up thy bed, and walk ! " He 
made the effort and was made whole. 

Sending Forth Apostles. 

One morning He called unto Him His disciples, and selected from them twelve 
who were not only to accompany Him, but themselves become preachers of the 
word ; able to heal diseases, and to cast out devils. 

Their names were Simon Peter, or Cephas, as our Lord called him from the 
first; Andrew, his brother; James and John, the sons of Zebedee and Salome; 
Philip, who was an early friend of Simon and Andrew ; Bartholomew, who is sup- 
posed to be Nathaniel ; Matthew, who gave up his profitable office when Jesus 
called him ; Thomas, James, the son of Alphseus and Mary, surnamed "The Less," 
perhaps because low of stature ; Jude or Judas, who was surnamed Thaddasus and 
Lebbaeus, the brother of James, the Less ; Simon, called Zelotes, or Zealot ; and 
Judas, named Iscariot, from Carioth, the place of his birth. 

The Sermon on the Mount. 

That all might hear, He went up into a mountain, followed by His disciples 
and the people, and when He had found a convenient spot, He sat down. There was 




CHRIST ON THE MOUNT 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 69 

no fear of interruption from the Pharisees or scribes, so Jesus began to preach His 
sermon on the mount. He commenced by telling them who were the truly 
blessed, from which they saw that it depended not on belonging to any favored 
class, having any particular talent or possessions, but that these blessings were 
within their humble reach, to whatever nation or calling they might belong. He 
said : " After this manner, pray ye : 

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name ; Thy kingdom come. 
Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. 
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into tempta- 
tion, but deliver us from evil : for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the 
glory, forever. Amen." "Go thy way, and as thou hast believed, so be it done unto 
thee." At that moment the palsy left his servant's body, and he "was healed in 
the self-same hour." 

Raising: the Dead. 

On the following day, our Lord went out from Capernaum and crossed the 
plains of Esdraelon, towards Nain, then a small city. They met, near the gate, a 
great crowd, forming a funeral procession. The corpse of a young man was being 
carried out. He was "the only son of his mother, and she was a widow." Jesus 
went up to the bier and touched it, and said, addressing the corpse, "Young man, 
I say unto thee, Arise," when immediately he that had been dead and was to have 
been so soon buried, sat upright and began to speak. 

Stilling: the Tempest. 

Our Lord proposed to His disciples that they should cross the lake of Genne- 
sareth. Soon after they had hoisted sail, Jesus retired to the stern of the ship, and 
soon fell into a sleep. Suddenly they were caught in a gale. The disciples, in 
fear, awoke Him with the cry, " Master, carest Thou not that we perish ? " But 
our Lord said to them, " Why are ye so fearful, O ye of little faith ? " and then to 
the sea, " Peace, be still." Then, in an instant, died the wind away ; and the water 
was still and tranquil. 

About this time Herod Antipas, who was now living in the Golden House at 
Tiberias, heard of the fame of Jesus, and expressed a wish to see Him. When he 
inquired who this man was, of whom every one was speaking, some of his 
attendants told him that Elias had reappeared on earth: others again, said that John 
the Baptist, whom their master had put to death, had risen from the dead. Then 
fear fell upon Herod, for he believed the latter report, that John had indeed risen, 
and that judgment would soon visit him for the cruel murder that he had committed. 

Feeding: the Multitude. 

One day Jesus was followed by a great throng of people, who were without 
food. It was evening, and the disciples asked Jesus to send the people away. He 
told them that they need not depart ; and then, turning to Philip, asked how many 
loaves they had. Presently, Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, found a lad with five 
small barley loves and two small fishes, and that was all. 



70 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

Jesus told His disciples to make the men sit down by fifties. When all were 
seated, Jesus looked up to heaven to direct them to their Father. He implored a 
blessing on the meal they were about to make, then brake the loaves and gave 
them to the disciples who distributed them in order to the multitude : and then the 
fishes in like manner, until, not only had they all partaken, but until they had had 
enough — the five thousand men besides the women and children. Then, that 
nothing might be lost, He told them to gather up the fragments : they filled twelve 
baskets. There was more left than there had been originally, and the lad was no 
worse off than before Andrew discovered his stock. 

Jesus Walks on the Sea* 

The people, when they had seen the miracle which had been wrought for them, 

were convinced that Jesus was the Messiah ; and perceiving that they were likely 

to take Him by force and make him a king, He urged the disciples to get into their 

ship whilst he sent the multitude away. His disciples had entered their ship, and 

were making for Capernaum, when a sudden and violent storm came up. The 

vessel was tossed about at the mercy of the waves, and they were well-nigh 

exhausted in rowing, when in early morning, Jesus drew near unto them, walking 

on the sea. In the dim light they were afraid ; for they thought it was a spirit. 

Then Jesus spake to them, and said, ''Be of good cheer, it is I, be not afraid." 

Peter, whose love was the most impulsive, said, " Lord, if it be Thou, bid me come 

unto Thee on the water." And the Lord bade him come. The boisterous wind 

and the rough sea took all the courage out of him. His heart sank, and then his 

body would have followed. He cried out, "Lord, save me ; " and immediately 

Jesus caught him and saved him, saying, " O thou of little faith, wherefore didst 

thou doubt ? " _, _, ,. 

i he 1 1 ansiigfuration. 

After this, Jesus went with His disciples to Cassarea Philippi. No crowd now 
attended Jesus, for He sought retirement, as He had somewhat of importance to 
tell His disciples concerning Himself. He asked them, "Whom do men say that I 
the Son of man am ? " They answered Him that some said He was John the 
Baptist, some that He was Elias, others that He was Jeremias or one of the prophets 
risen again. Then said He to them, "But whom say ye that I am ? " And Peter 
at once answered, " Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God." 

Six days afterwards, Jesus took with Him Peter and James and John up into a 
mountain to pray. As Jesus prayed, the fashion of His countenance was altered; 
it shone as the sun in all its dazzling glory. His garments, which, no doubt, were 
travel-stained and worn, became as a raiment of light, and glistened as the moun- 
tain snow. But the disciples fell asleep. Then two other figures appeared, also 
radiant in glory: they were Moses and Elias; the one representing the Law, and 
the other the Prophets. They talked with Jesus concerning His death at Jerusalem, 
which showed that in the eyes of neither of them was this coming degradation 
inconsistent with the glory which was then revealed in Jesus, and which, after His 
resurrection, should surround Him forever and ever. 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 71 

At last the disciples awoke, and as they opened their eyes they could perceive 
that their Master was the centre of the light, and that by Him stood two others. 
After Moses and Elias had departed, Peter said, " Lord, it is good for us to be here ; 
if Thou wilt, let us make three tabernacles, one for Thee and one for Moses, and 
one for Elias." While he was yet speaking, a bright cloud overshadowed them, and 
forth from it came a voice, saying, " This is My beloved Son, in whom 1 am well 
pleased: hear ye Him." 

The disciples, in their fear, fell on the ground, and remained there until the 
glory had passed away. Then Jesus came and touched them, and bade them arise, 
and not be afraid. They looked, and saw no one but Jesus, and as they went down 
the mountain-side together, He charged them, saying, "Tell the vision to no man, 
until the Son of man be risen from the dead." 

The Last Visit to Jerusalem. 

About this time the feast of Tabernacles was at hand, and His brethren besought 
Him that He would go up with them to Jerusalem. Jesus refused to go with them, 
sent them on before Him, and, after a time, set out quietly with His more immediate 
followers. Jesus was now taking this journey for the last time. 

At Bethany. 

Returning from Jerusalem one day, Our Lord stopped at Bethany, a little vil- 
lage about two miles southeast of the city, the abode of His dear friend Lazarus, and 
his sisters Martha and Mary. On this occasion Martha, for her name implies that 
she was the lady or mistress of the house, received Him, and having welcomed 
Him, bustled off to prepare for entertaining Him, while her sister Mary, not sharing at 
all her trouble and anxieties, was sitting enjoying the sweet converse of her Lord, 
which she herself had often delighted in, for she was also His disciple. Vexed that 
just now she should have all the trouble and her sister all the enjoyment, she came to 
Jesus and said : "Lord, dost Thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone ? 
Bid her therefore that she help me." Jesus answered Martha and said : " Martha, 
Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things, but one thing is needful ; 
and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her." 

The Raising of Lazarus. 

One day Jesus went far away, when there a message came from Bethany. 
His friend Lazarus had been taken ill, and his sisters sent to tell the Lord so. The 
messenger returned ; but before he got back, Lazarus, becoming alarmingly worse, 
had died. Meantime, Jesus abode two days where He was, and then He said to 
His disciples : " Let us go into Judea again. Our friend Lazarus sleepeth ; but I 
go that I may awake him out of his sleep." They thinking that this was a favor- 
able sign, replied that if he slept he should do well ; but Jesus then told them plainly 
" Lazarus is dead. And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent 
ye may believe ; nevertheless, let us go unto him." 

It was evening when they drew near to the village ; they then heard that 
Lazarus had been dead four days, and that many had come to the sisters to mourn 



72 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

with them. Some of these friends told Martha that Jesus was coming. She went 
out to meet Him, and accosted Him with words of sorrowful reproach. "Lord, if 
Thou hadst been here my brother had not died." Jesus said to her : "Thy 
brother shall rise again." Martha replied : " I know that he shall rise again in 
the resurrection at the last day." Then said Jesus : "I am the resurrection, and 
the life ; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whoso- 
ever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." Then said he : "Where have 
ye laid him ? " and they asked Him to follow them to the grave. On his way there, 
Jesus wept. Jesus had come to the grave. It was a cave hewn out of a rock, and 
a heavy stone lay at the mouth. Jesus said : " Take ye away the stone." Then 
Jesus cried with a loud voice : " Lazarus, come forth." And immediately he who 
had been dead four days came forth, bound round with the usual grave-clothes, and 
his face covered with a napkin. Jesus commanded them to loose Lazarus, which, 
when they had done he retired with his sisters. 

Humility Taught. 

One day, some women desired that their children should receive His blessing. 

As the women came near with the children, the disciples tried to prevent their 

approach. When Jesus saw what His disciples were doing, He was much displeased. 

He Himself called the children unto Him, and said: " Suffer the little children to 

come unto me, and forbid them not ; for of such is the Kingdom of God. Verily I 

say unto you : Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he 

shall not enter therein." t- . . T t 

.entering Jerusalem. 

One Sunday, Jesus left Bethany with His disciples to go into Jerusalem. 
When they had come to the Mount of Olives, many people who had come up to the 
feast, and who had heard that Jesus had also come, went forth to meet Him with 
palm-branches in their hands, and shouting, " Hosanna, blessed is the King of Israel 
that cometh in the name of the Lord." Then Jesus sent two of His disciples, 
saying to them, " Go your way into the village over against you ; and straight- 
way ye shall find an ass tied, and a colt with her, loose them and bring them unto 
me ; and if any man say aught unto you, ye shall say, the Lord hath need of them; 
and straightway he will send them." This was done in fulfilment of a prophecy 
spoken by Zechariah, four hundred years before. 

The disciples found the colt as they had been told. The owners inquired what 
they were doing in loosing it; but when they said, " The Lord hath need of him," 
no further objection was raised. They brought the ass and the colt to Jesus, and 
when they had thrown some garments on the colt, Jesus sat thereon. By this time 
many more people had come out from Jerusalem, and had joined those who had 
already surrounded Jesus. On moved this wondrous procession. The multitude 
took off their garments and spread them in the way ; others cut down branches 
from the trees for Jesus to ride over. 

Slowly the procession wound over the Mount of Olives; the people shouting 
and praising God, saying, " Hosanna to the Son of David. Blessed be the King 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 73 

that cometh in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven, and glory in the highest." 
Then some of the Pharisees, who mingled with the crowd, indignant that such 
honor was given to Jesus, said to Him, "Master, rebuke Thy disciples." And He 
answered them, " I tell you that if these should hold their peace, the stones would 
immediately cry out." 

The Plot of Judas, 

The Jewish council, or Sanhedrim, met at the palace of Caiaphas, the high- 
priest. They plotted how they might take Jesus by craft, and put Him to death, 
but they were yet afraid, lest the people should rescue him, and thus cause an 
uproar. While they were sitting, Judas Iscariot, one of His disciples, presented 
himself before them. He asked the council what they would give him if he 
delivered Jesus unto them. They knowing him to be a disciple, and thinking it 
likely that their end would be best served in this manner, were very glad, and 
readily promised him thirty pieces of silver — just the price of a common slave. 

On the following day the disciples asked Jesus where they should eat the Pass- 
over together, and he sent Peter and John to get a room for them. 

The Last Supper. 

When the even was come, Jesus left Bethany with His twelve disciples, and 
came to the upper chamber that had been prepared for them. Then as they sat at 
the table, Jesus was troubled in spirit as He said, " Verily, verily, I say unto you, 
that one of you which eateth with me shall betray me." With feelings of deep 
sorrow they then began, one by one, to say to Jesus, "Lord, is it I ? " Jesus 
replied, " It is one of the twelve that dippeth with me in the dish." 

Sitting next to Jesus and leaning on His bosom was His beloved disciple, John ; 
Peter, beckoning to him, suggested that he might ask the Saviour quietly who was 
the betrayer. John took occasion to ask the question, and Jesus replied, " He it is, 
to whom I shall give a sop when I have dipped it." Then, taking up a piece of the 
bread, and dipping it into the thick sauce made of dates, figs, and vinegar, he gave 
it to Judas Iscariot. Judas then had the hardihood to ask if it were he, and Jesus 
said it was, adding, "That thou doest, do quickly." Judas went immediately out, 
and it was night. 

Peter's Warning* 

When he had departed, Jesus continued His discourse with the other disciples. 

He gave them the new commandment, that they should love one another, as 
He had loved them ; then turning to Simon, He said to him, "Simon, Simon, behold 
Satan hath desire to have you, that he may sift you as wheat ; but I have prayed 
for thee that thy faith fail not ; and when thou art converted strengthen thy 
brethren." 

Peter at once replied, " Lord, I am ready to go with Thee, both to prison and 
to death." But Jesus who knew his impetuous and presumptuous disciple better 
than he knew himself, said to him, " I tell thee, Peter, the cock shall not crow this 
day, before thou shalt thrice deny that thou knowest me." 



74 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

The Lord's Supper, 

As an emblem of His body, which would so soon be broken on the cross, He 
took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, 
" Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you : this do in remembrance of me." 

Then he took the cup of wine and when he had given thanks, He gave it to 
them, saying, " Drink ye all of it : this is my blood of the new testament, which is 
shed for many for the remission of sins." 

Gethsemane. 

Crossing over the brook Kedron, our Lord entered the garden of Gethsemane 
with His disciples, and said to them " Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder ; " 
and He took with Him, apart from the others, Peter, James and John. He said to 
the three, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death ; tarry ye here, and 
watch with me;" and then, feeling how severe was the trial through which He was 
passing, He told His disciples to pray that they might not enter into temptation. 
Jesus then withdrew Himself from them about a stone's throw, knelt down, fell on 
His face, and prayed, " O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me ; 
nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt." He turned to His disciples, and 
found them asleep again, and this happened three times. 

The Betrayal. 

Then a crowd of people entered the garden. Foremost was Judas, and with him 

a band of officers and men, with weapons and lanterns and torches. As the band 

drew near, Judas, by preconcerted signal, approached Jesus, and said, " Hail 

Master," and kissed Him. Then they came and laid hands on Jesus, and took 

Him. 

The Trial. 

The officers having bound Jesus, led Him away from the garden to the palace of 
the high-priest, where the Sanhedrim was then sitting.- Peter and John followed 
their Master afar off; not near enough to be observed. When the band had safely 
conducted Jesus to the palace, John drew near; and making use of the interest he 
had — for he was known to the high-priest — got admitted himself, and afterwards 
spoke to the young woman who kept the door, and got Peter admitted also. The 
servants had kindled a fire in the hall, for the night was chilly, and Peter sat down 
with them to warm himself whilst he waited to see the result of his Lord's examina- 
tion by the Sanhedrim, some of whom were then assembled at the high-priest's 
palace. 

The high-priest first asked Jesus concerning His disciples and His doctrine, to 
which he replied, " I spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the synagogue, and 
in the temple, whither the Jews always resort; and in secret have I said nothing. 
Why askest thou me ? Ask them who heard me, what 1 have said unto them; be- 
hold, they know what I said." 

At last two came forward, who sware they had heard Jesus say He was able to 
destroy the temple of God, and to build it in three days. The high-priest asked 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 75 

Jesus if he had no reply to make, but Jesus remained silent. Again the high-priest 
asked Him, and said, "I adjure Thee by the living God that Thou tell us whether 
Thou be the Christ, the Son of God." Jesus then answered that he was, and said, 
"Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and com- 
ing in the clouds of heaven." 

Then the high-priest said, "He hath spoken blasphemy; what further need have 
we of witnesses ? Behold now ye have heard His blasphemy. What think ye ?" 
And the members of the council agreeing with the high-priest, said He was guilty of 
death, and so condemned Him. 

Peter's Denial. 

Peter waited with the expectation that his Master would either successfully 
oppose His enemies, or else miraculously deliver Himself from their power. But 
when he saw Jesus thus condemned, he began to fear for himself. As he sat warm- 
ing himself, the maid who had had charge of the door said, "Thou also wast with 
Jesus of Nazareth." Peter denied his Master before them all, and said that he 
neither knew Him, nor understood what was said. 

This drew on Peter the attention of all the group, and one said, "Did I not see 
thee in the garden? " Peter at once denied that he was there, and immediately the 
cock crew. About an hour after this, others said they were sure he was one of 
those with Jesus. Then began Peter to curse and to swear, saying, "I know not 
this man of whom ye speak." And while he thus spake the cock crew the second 
time. 

Jesus turned His head and looked on him, and then Peter remembered how his 
Master had said, " Before the cock crew twice, thou shalt deny me thrice." 

Death of Judas* 

When morning dawned, Judas appeared before the council. He brought back 
the thirty pieces of silver to the council, saying, "I have sinned, in that I have 
betrayed innocent blood." Casting down the money, to possess which he had so 
grievously sinned, he went out and hanged himself, but the rope breaking, he fell 
from some height, and burst asunder. The council took up the money, and being 
too mindful of the law to put any money into the treasury that had been the price 
of blood, they bought with it a piece of ground in which to bury strangers. 

Before Pilate. 

Then the council rose, and led Jesus away, bound, to Pontius Pilate the 
governor. He asked them what accusation they brought against Jesus, and they 
began to accuse Jesus of disloyalty to Caesar, of forbidding to give tribute to him, 
and of proclaiming Himself a King. 

Pilate asked Him if He were the King of the Jews. Jesus answerd, "My 
kingdom is not of this world; if my kingdom were of this world, then would my 
servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the Jews: but now is my kingdom 
not from hence." 



76 STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

Pilate called to the chief priests and the rulers, and said to them, "I have 
found no fault in this Man touching those things whereof ye accuse Him. I will 
therefore chastise Him and release Him." But the chief priests and elders per- 
suaded the multitude to demand the death of Jesus and the release of Barabbas, 
the latter being a robber who had committed murder to attain his end. When 
Pilate asked them which of the two he should release, they cried out, "Not this 
man, but Barabbas." Pilate asked what he should then do with Jesus, whom they 
called the King of the Jews; and they all said, " Crucify Him, crucify Him." 

Pilate then took water and washed his hands saying, "I am innocent of the 
blood of this just person, see ye to it." And the people said, "His blood be on us 
and on our children." 

Jesus was now in the custody of the Roman soldiers. They stripped off 
His robes, and put on a purple military cloak, plaited a crown of thorns, which they 
put on His head, and for a sceptre they placed a reed in His right hand. Then 
bowing the knee before Him, in derision and mockery, they hailed Him as King of 
the Jews. 

The Crucifixion. 

After taking from Him the purple robe, and putting on His own clothes, they 
placed on Him the cross on which He was to surfer and led Him away. When they 
had come to Mount Calvary or Golgotha, — an eminence on the north-west of 
Jerusalem, — they crucified Jesus, nailing His hands and feet to the cross, and on 
either side was crucified a malefactor; thus fulfilling the words of Isaiah, "He was 
numbered with the transgressors." Pilate wrote a superscription and set it up over 
the cross, " Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews;" it was written in Greek and 
Latin and Hebrew, so that all who were to Calvary were able to read it. 

As Jesus hung on the cross he was reviled by all classes, the chief priests, the 
scribes, the rulers, the soldiers, the people, and even His fellow-sufferers, the 
thieves, all took it for granted that if He were what He pretended to be He would 
save Himself and come down from the cross. 

One of the thieves said to Him, "If thou be the Christ, save Thyself and us ; " 
but the other, repenting of having at all reviled Jesus, rebuked his fellow, saying, 
" Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation ? and we in- 
deed justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds, but this man hath done 
nothing amiss. Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom." 

Jesus heard his prayer, and comforted his dying moments with the blessed as- 
surance, " To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise." 

In His distress of soul, Jesus cried out, " My God, my God, why hast Thou 
forsaken me ? " as He realized by what an awful distance sin separates the creature 
from the Creator. He said, " I thirst ; " and some one ran, and filled a sponge with 
vinegar and putting it on the stalk of a hyssop plant held it to His mouth for Him to 
drink. When Jesus had drunk the vinegar, He said, "It is finished." Then 
cried Jesus with a loud voice, " Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit ; " and 
having said this, He bowed His head and gave up the ghost. 







BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 79 

A fearful convulsion shook the earth and rent the rocks, in the midst of which 
tombs were opened, and after three days many of the saints rose from the dead, and 
going into the city appeared uuto many. 

When the centurion, who was on duty in charge of the soldiers, heard the dying 
words of Jesus, and then felt the earthquake, he feared greatly, saying, "Truly 
this was the Son of God." 

The Burial. 

Joseph of Arimathaea, a good man, possessed of riches, went to Pilate and asked 
him for the body of Jesus. Pilate consented, and then Joseph wrapped the body 
in a fine linen cloth. Near the place of crucifixion was a garden belonging to Joseph, 
in which he had hewn out of the solid rock a tomb that had never yet been used. 
In this they laid the body of Jesus ; and having rolled a great stone to the mouth of 
the sepulchre, they went their way. 

The chief priests and Pharisees came to Pilate to have the sepulchre made se- 
cure, as they remembered that Jesus had said He would rise again after three days ; 
and they feared that His disciples might remove His body. Pilate placed a guard of 
soldiers to watch the sepulchre, and they sealed the stone that lay in front, for still 
further protection. 

The Resurrection. 

But at night the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, the earth shook, and 
the stone that had been set against the door of the sepulchre was rolled back, and 
formed a seat on which the angel sat with a countenance like lightning, and with 
dazzling white raiments. The keepers trembled before him, and became as dead men. 

As the two Marys and Salome journeyed to the garden, they saw the stone 
removed, and judging that the Jews had removed the body of Jesus, they were 
broken-hearted. Mary Magdalene, full of grief, went back, and told Peter and John 
what had happened ; but Mary and Salome desired to make further search. 

Into the entrance of the sepulchre, Mary and Salome now went, and saw on the 
right hand side an angel sitting, clothed in a long white garment. The women drew 
back affrighted, but the angel said, " Fear not ye : for I know that ye seek Jesus, 
who was crucified. He is not here ; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the 
place where the Lord lay. And go quickly, and tell His disciples that He is risen 
from the dead ; and, behold, He goeth before you into Galilee ; there shall ye see 
Him ; lo, I have told you." 

The Ascension. 

After that Jesus appeared to the women and to the disciples several times, in 
various places. He said to them, " All power is given unto me in heaven and in 
earth. Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost ; teaching them to observe all things 
whatsoever I have commanded you : and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the 
end of the world." 

One day he led His disciples out in the direction of Bethany, whither they had 
often gone together. Some of them said to Him, " Lord, wilt Thou at this time re- 



So STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 

store again the kingdom to Israel ? " He answered them, " It is not for you to know 
the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in His own power. But ye shall 
receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you : and ye shall be wit- 
nesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the 
uttermost parts of the earth." 

When Jesus had finished speaking, He lifted up His hands and blessed them. 
Whilst He was thus blessing them, behold, He was carried up into heaven, and a 
cloud received Him out of their sight. 

Pentecost* 

After the ascension of Christ, at the suggestion of Peter, the Apostles chose 
Matthias to be one of their number in place of the traitor Judas. Not long after 
they met to celebrate the Day of Pentecost, and while they sat together the Holy 
Ghost came upon them and they all received power to use foreign languages, so that 
they might go about the world preaching in the tongues of whatever lands they 
entered. Peter was now the leader of them, and he preached several notable ser- 
mons, and thousands were converted and added to the church. The Christians 
then generally sold their property and turned the proceeds in to the common fund of 
the Church. But two, Ananias and his wife, Sapphira, kept back a part of their 
wealth, and tried to deceive the Apostles. But their lying was exposed, and they 
were struck dead. 

Persecutions. 

The Apostles were soon subjected to persecutions at the hands of the Jews. 
They were first imprisoned, but an angel opened the prison doors and released 
them. Then Stephen, who had been made a deacon, was accused of blasphemy 
and stoned to death. After that there was a great persecution and the Christians 
were driven out of Jerusalem, and scattered in many lands, but wherever they 
went they preached the gospel, and made many converts. The most zealous among 
their persecutors was a scholarly young man named Saul, of Tarsus. He was 
present at the killing of Stephen, and he soon set out for Damascus to arrest some 
Christians, who had fled thither. On his way he was stricken down and made 
blind, and he was led to Damascus helpless. Meantime the Apostle Philip went 
toward Egypt, and met a eunuch who was the treasurer of the Queen of Ethiopia, 
and preached to him, and converted and baptized him. 

St. Paul 

When Saul reached Damascus he was visited by one of the Christians whom 
he had meant to slay, and was soon converted fully. Thereafter he was called 
Paul, and was the most zealous of all the Apostles. Another notable convert was 
Cornelius, a Roman Centurion at Ccesarea. He was led by a vision to send for 
Peter, and at the same time Peter was instructed in a vision to accept converts 
from the Gentile nations, as well as from the Jews. Some of the others murmured 



STORIES OF THE BIBLE. 8] 

at this, but Peter told them of his vision, and convinced them that the gospel was 
for the Gentiles, as well as for the children of Israel. So began the preaching to the 
Gentiles. 

Death of Herod. 

Soon after this King Herod began to persecute the Christians bitterly. He put 
James to death, and threw Peter into prison. But Peter was released by an angel 
again. Then Herod set himself up to be worshipped by the people as a God, but as 
he sat upon his throne he was stricken with a mortal illness, and fell dead. 

Paul and Barnabas. 

Then Paul and Barnabas set out on the first of their great missionary journeys. 
They went first to Seleucia, thence to Cyprus, Salamir, Paphos, and Perga. At 
Antioch, in Pisidia, they were violently persecuted, and fled thence to Iconium. 
There again they were ill-treated, and fled to Lystra and Derbe. There they 
wrought miracles and made converts. But some of the people wanted to worship 
them as Gods, and then others persecuted them, so they presently returned to 
Antioch. 

Paul and Silas. 

On his next journey Paul took Silas with him instead of Barnabas. They went 
through various parts of Asia Minor, establishing many churches. At Troas, Paul 
was bidden in a vision to go over into Macedonia and preach. They went and 
made many converts at Philippi. They were thrown into prison there on false 
charges, but at night there came an earthquake, which opened the prison doors, and 
set them free. At this the keeper of the prison believed their preaching, and was 
baptized with all his family. 

On Mars Hill. 

After further joumeyings, Paul reached Athens, then the most highly cultivated 
of cities. He was received with much curiosity, and the Athenians were eager to 
hear him. So he went up to a great public place called Mars Hill, and there 
expounded the gospel. He was listened to with interest until he spoke of the 
resurrection of the dead, but at that some began to mock him. Nevertheless, he 
made some converts in that city, including one member of the Supreme Court of the 
Areopagus. 

Corinth and Ephesus* 

Paul next went to Corinth, and lived there for a year and a half, and went to 
Ephesus. After he had been at the latter place for some time, and had made many 
converts, one Demetrius, a maker of shrines and idols, found his trade injured, and 
accordingly raised a riot against Paul. For hours they raged about, crying 
".Great is Diana of the Ephesians ! " So Paul left them, and went his way to other 
Greek cities, where his preaching met with great success. Then he was called by 
the Holy Spirit back to Jerusalem. 






S2 STORIES OF THE BIBLE, 

Before Felix and Festus. 

Here he was arrested, but was allowed to speak to the people in his own 
defence, and when he made it known that he was a free-born Roman citizen he 
was treated with respect by the officers and taken to Caesarea, to be examined by 
Felix, the Roman governor. Felix was much impressed by Paul's defence of him- 
self, and set him at liberty, though under the surveillance of an officer. More than 
once Felix sent for Paul fo expound the gospel to him, and trembled at his preach- 
ing, but does not appear to have been converted. Then Felix was succeeded by 
Festus, whom the Jews besought to have Paul sent back from Caesarea to Jerusa- 
lem, so that they might waylay him and kill him. But Festus would not, but went 
down to Caesarea to see Paul there. He gave Paul a hearing, and then suggested 
that he go up to Jerusalem and be tried there. But Paul refused, saying : " I 
have done the Jews no harm. I ought to be tried not by them, but at Caesar's 
judgment-seat. I appeal unto Caesar." This appeal could not be denied, so 
preparations were made for sending Paul to Rome. Meantime the Viceroy Agrippa 
came thither and examined him and found no fault in him. When Paul preached to 
him, Agrippa said: "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian." But as Paul 
had appealed to Caesar, to Rome he had to go. 

The Voyage to Rome. 

The journey to Rome was made in a ship, which was beaten about much by 
storms. One landing was made on the southern shore of Crete. Next, after two 
weeks of dreadful storms, they were shipwrecked on the coast of Malta. The 
islanders received them kindly, and built a great fire to warm and dry them. Out 
of a bundle of sticks a viper crawled, and bit Paul on the hand. When the people 
saw that Paul was not injured by the poison they took him to be a god. Other 
miracles were wrought there, and some converts made. After three months they 
were taken off by another ship, and carried to Rome, where Paul was allowed to 
live in a house of his own, and preach the gospel. He made many converts, and 
wrote epistles to the various churches he had founded. But after several years he 
suffered martyrdom in the great persecution which the Emperor Nero made against 
the Christians. 

St. John at Patmos. 

The last survivor of the Apostles was John, who lived to be very old, and 
spent the closing years of his life in exile on the island of Patmos. There, one 
Lord's Day, he had a wondrous vision, in which he was taken up into heaven and 
made to see all that should happen until the ending of the world and the final judg- 
ment of mankind. 






BOOK IL 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE, 



I I 




SIIAKKSPEARE 



Book II. 
Tales from Shakespeare, 

By Charles and Mary Lamb. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



The Feud between the Montagues and Capulets— Romeo in disguise goes to the 

Capulets' Ball, and Falls in Love with Juliet and She with Him— Their 

Interview on Her Balcony— Plans for a Secret Marriage— Tybalt Kills 

mercutio, and romeo kills tybalt— romeo is banished— the capulets 

Force Juliet into a Match with Paris— To Escape She Takes a 

Sleeping Potion and Feigns Death — Romeo and Paris Meet 

at Her Tomb— They Fight, and Paris is Slain— Thinking 

Juliet dead, Romeo Kills Himself, and She, finding Him 

dead, Kills Herself— The Montagues and Capulets 

are reconciled to each other over the dead 

Bodies of the Unfortunate lovers. 



dp 



HE two chief families in Verona 
were the rich Capulets and the 
Montagues. There had been 
an old quarrel between these families, 
which was grown to such a height, and 
so deadly was the enmity between them, 
that it extended to the remotest kindred, 
to the followers and retainers of both 
sides, insomuch that a servant of the 
house of Montague could not meet a 
servant of the house of Capulet, nor a 
Capulet encounter with a Montague by 
chance, but fierce words and sometimes 
bloodshed ensued ; and frequent were 
the brawls from such accidental meet- 
ings, which disturbed the happy quiet of 
Verona's estate. 

Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, 

to which many fair ladies and many noble 

guests were invited. All the admired 

beauties of Verona were present, and all 

5 85 



comers were made welcome if they were 
not of the house of Montague. At this 
feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of 
Romeo, son to the old Lord Montague, 
was present ; and though it was danger- 
ous for a Montague to be seen in this 
assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of 
Romeo, persuaded the young lord to go 
to this assembly in the disguise of a 
mask, that he might see his Rosaline, 
and seeing her compare her with some 
choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) 
would make him think his swan a crow. 
Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's 
words ; nevertheless, for the love of 
Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. For 
Romeo was a sincere and passionate 
lover, and one that lost his sleep for 
love, and fled society to be alone, think- 
ing on Rosaline, who disdained him, and 
never requited his love with the least 



86 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



show of courtesy or affection ; and Ben- 
volio wished to cure his friend of this 
love by showing him diversity of ladies 
and company. To this feast of Capulets 
then young Romeo with Benvolio and 
their friend Mercutio went masked. Old 
Capulet bid them welcome, and told 
them that ladies who had their toes 
unplagued with corns would dance with 
them. And the old man was light- 
hearted and merry, and said that he had 
worn a mask when he was young, and 
could have told a whispering tale in a 
fair lady's ear. And they fell to danc- 
ing, and Romeo was suddenly struck 
with the exceeding beauty of a lady that 
danced there, who seemed to him to 
teach the torches to burn bright, and her 
beauty to show by night like a rich jewel 
worn by a blackamoor : beauty too rich 
for use, too dear for earth ! like a snowy 
dove trooping with crows (he said), so 
richly did her beauty and perfections 
shine above the ladies her companions. 
While he uttered these praises, he was 
overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of Lord 
Capulet, who knew him by his voice to 
be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a 
fiery and passionate temper, could not 
endure that a Montague should come 
under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn 
(as he said) at their solemnities. And 
he stormed and raged exceedingly, and 
would have struck young Romeo dead. 
But his uncle, the old Lord Capulet, 
would not suffer him to do any injury at 
that time, both out of respect to his 
guests, and because Romeo had borne 
himself like a gentleman, and all tongues 
in Verona bragged of him to be a virtu- 
ous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, 
forced to be patient against his will, re- 
strained himself, but swore that this vile 



Montague should at another time dearly 
pay fo" his intrusion. 

Ine dancing being done, Romeo 
watched the place where the lady stood ; 
and under favor of his masking habit, 
which might seem to excuse in part the 
liberty, he presumed in the gentlest 
manner to take her by the hand, calling 
it a shrine, which if he profaned by touch- 
ing it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and 
would kiss it for atonement. ''Good pil- 
grim," answered the lady, "your devo- 
tion shows by far too mannerly and too 
courtly : saints have hands, which pil- 
grims may touch, but kiss not." " Have 
not saints lips, and pilgrims too ? " said 
Romeo. "Ay," said the lady, 'Mips 
which they must use in prayer." "O 
then, my dear saint," said Romeo " hear 
my prayer and grant it, lest I despair." 
In such like allusions and loving conceits 
they were engaged, when the lady was 
called away to her mother. And Romeo 
inquiring who her mother was, discovered 
that the lady whose peerless beauty he 
was so much struck with, was young 
Juliet, daughter and heir to the Lord 
Capulet, the great enemy of the Mon- 
tagues ; and that he had unknowingly 
engaged his heart to his foe. This trou- 
bled him, but it could not dissuade him 
from loving. As little rest had Juliet, 
when she found that the gentleman that 
she had been talking with was Romeo 
and a Montague, for she had been sud- 
denly smit with the same hasty and 
inconsiderate passion for Romeo, which 
he had conceived for her ; and a prodigi- 
ous birth of love it seemed to her, that 
she must love her enemy, and that her 
affections should settle there, where 
family considerations should induce her 
chiefly to hate. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



87 



It being midnight Romeo with his 
companions departed ; but they soon 
missed him, for, unable to stay away 
from the house where he had left his 
heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard 
which was at the back of Juliet's house. 
Here he had not remained long, ruminat- 
ing on his new love, when Juliet ap- 
peared above at a window, through 
which her exceeding beauty seemed to 
break like the light of the sun in the 
east ; and the moon, which shone in the 
orchard with a faint light, appeared 
to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief 
at the superior luster of this new sun. 
And she leaning her hand upon her 
cheek, he passionately wished himself a 
glove upon that hand, that he might 
touch her cheek. She, all this while 
thinking herself alone, fetched a deep 
sigh, and exclaimed, "Ah me!" Ro- 
meo was enraptured to hear her speak, 
and said softly, unheard by her, " O 
speak again, bright angel, for such you 
appear, being over my head like a 
winged messenger from heaven whom 
mortals fair back to gaze upon." She, 
unconscious of being overheard, and full 
of the new passion which that night's 
adventure had given birth to, called 
upon her lover by name (whom she 
supposed absent): "O Romeo, Ro- 
meo ! " said she, " wherefore art thou, 
Romeo ? Deny thy father, and refuse 
thy name, for my sake ; or if thou wilt 
not, be but my sworn love, and I no 
longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, 
having this encouragement, would fain 
have spoken, but he was desirous of 
hearing more ; and the lady continued 
her passionate discourse with herself (as 
she thought), still chiding Romeo for be- 
ing Romeo and a Montague, and wish- 



ing him some other name, or that he 
would put away the hated name, and for 
that name, which was no part of him- 
self, he should take all herself. At this 
loving word Romeo could no longer re- 
frain, but taking up the dialogue as if 
her words had been addressed to him 
personally, and not merely in fancy, he 
bade her call him Love, or by whatever 
other name she pleased, for he was no 
longer Romeo, if that name was dis- 
pleasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear 
a man's voice in the garden, did not at 
first know who it was, that by favor of 
the night and darkness had thus stum- 
bled upon the discovery of her secret ; 
but when he spoke again, though her 
ears had not yet drunk a hundred words 
of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a 
lover's hearing, that she immediately 
knew him to be young Romeo, and she 
expostulated with him on the danger to 
which he had exposed himself by climb- 
ing the orchard walls, for if any of her 
kinsmen should find him there, it would 
be death to him, being a Montague. 
"Alack," said Romeo, "there is more 
peril in your eye, than in twenty of their 
swords. Do you but look kind upon 
me, lady, and I am proof against their 
enmity. Better my life should be ended 
by their hate, than that hated life 
should be prolonged, to live without 
your love." "How came you into this 
place," said Juliet, "and by whose di- 
rection ? " "Love directed me," an- 
swered Romeo. " I am no pilot, yet 
wert thou as far apart from me as that 
vast shore which is washed with the 
farthest sea, I should adventure for such 
merchandise. A crimson blush came 
over the face of Juliet, yet unseen by 
Romeo by reason of the night, when she 



88 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



reflected upon the discovery which she 
had made, yet not meaning to make it, 
of her love to Romeo. She would fain 
have recalled her words, but that was im- 
possible ; fain would she have stood upon 
form, and have kept her lover at a dis- 
tance, as the custom of discreet ladies 
is, to frown and be perverse, and give 
their suitors harsh denials at first ; to 
stand off, and affect a coyness or indif- 
ference, where they most love, that 
their lovers may not think them too 
lightly or too easily won : for the diffi- 
culty of attainment increases the value 
of the object. But there was no room 
in her case for denials, or puttings off, 
or any of the customary arts of delay 
and protracted courtship. Romeo had 
heard from her own tongue, when she 
did not dream that he was near her, a 
confession of her love. So with an 
honest frankness, which the novelty of 
her situation excused, she confirmed the 
truth of what he had before heard, and 
addressing him by the name of fair 
Montague (love can sweeten a sour 
name), she begged him not to impute her 
easy yielding to levity or an unworthy 
mind, but that he must lay the fault of 
it (if it were a fault) upon the accident 
of the night which had so strangely dis- 
covered her thoughts. And, she added, 
that though her behavior to him might 
not be sufficiently prudent, measured by 
the custom of her sex, yet that she would 
prove more true than many whose pru- 
dence was dissembling, and their mod- 
esty artificial cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the 
heavens to witness that nothing was 
farther from his thoughts than to impute 
a shadow of dishonor to such an honored 
lady, when she stopped him, begged him 



not to swear : for although she joyed in 
him, yet she had no joy of that night's 
contract ; it was too rash, too unadvised, 
too sudden. But he being urgent with 
her to exchange a vow of love with her 
that night, she said that she already had 
given him hers before he requested 
it ; meaning when he overheard her 
confession ; but she would retract what 
she then bestowed, for the pleasure of 
giving it again, for her bounty was as in- 
finite as the sea, and her love as deep. 
From this loving conference she was 
called by her nurse, who slept with her, 
and thought it time for her to be in bed, 
for it was near to daybreak ; but hastily 
returning she said three or four words 
more to Romeo, the purport of which 
was, that if his love was indeed honor- 
able, and his purpose marriage, she 
would send a messenger to him to-mor- 
row, to appoint a time for their marriage, 
when she would lay all her fortunes at 
his feet, and follow him as her lord 
through the world. While they were 
settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly 
called for by her nurse, and went in and 
returned, and went and returned again, 
for she seemed as jealous of Romeo go- 
ing from her, as a young girl of her bird, 
which she will let hop a little from her 
hand, and pluck it back with a silken 
thread ; and Romeo was as loath to part as 
she : for the sweetest music to lovers is 
the sound of each other's tougues at 
night. But at last they parted, wishing 
mutually sweet sleep and rest for that 
night. 

The day was breaking when they 
parted, and Romeo, who was too full of 
thoughts of his mistress and that 
blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, 
instead of going home, bent his course 




ROMEO AND JULIET 

Act 2d, Scene 2d. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



91 



to a monastery hard by, to find Friar 
Lawrence. The good friar was already 
up at his devotions, but seeing young 
Romeo abroad so early, he conjectured 
rightly that he had not been abed that 
night, but that some distemper of youth- 
ful affection had kept him waking. He 
was right in imputing the cause of Ro- 
meo's wakefulness to love, but he made 
a wrong guess at the object, for he 
thought that his love for Rosaline had 
kept him waking. But when Romeo 
revealed his new passion for Juliet, and 
requested the assistance of the friar to 
marry them that day, the holy man 
lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of 
wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's 
affections, for he had been privy to all 
Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many 
complaints of her disdain ; and he said 
that young men's love lay not truly in 
their hearts, but in their eyes. But Ro- 
meo replying that he himself had often 
chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who 
could not love him again, whereas Juliet 
both loved and was beloved by him, the 
friar assented in some measure to his 
reasons ; and thinking that a matri- 
monial alliance between young Juliet 
and Romeo might happily be the means 
of making up the long breach between 
the Capulets and the Montagues, which 
no one more lamented than this good 
friar, who was a friend to both the fami- 
lies, and had often interposed his media- 
tion to make up the quarrel without ef- 
fect, partly moved by policy, and partly 
by his fondness for young Romeo, to 
whom he could deny nothing, the old 
man consented to join their hands in mar- 
riage. 

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and 
Juliet, who knew his intent from a mes- 



senger which she had dispatched accord- 
ing to promise, did not fail to be early at 
the cell of friar Lawrence, where their 
hands were joined in holy marriage; the 
good friar praying the heavens to smile 
upon that act, and in the union of this 
young Montague and young Capulet to 
bury the old strife and long dissensions of 
their families. 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hast- 
ened home, where she stayed impatient 
for the coming of night, at which time Ro- 
meo promised to come and meet her in 
the orchard, where they had met the 
night before; and the time between seem- 
ed as tedious to her as the night before 
some great festival seems to an impatient 
child that has got new finery which it 
may not put on till the morning. 

That same day, about noon, Romeo's 
friends, Benvolio and Mercutio, walking 
through the streets of Verona, were met 
by a party of the Capulets with the im- 
petuous Tybalt at their head. This was 
the same angry Tybalt who would have 
fought with Romeo at old Lord Capulet's 
feast He seeing Mercutio, accused him 
bluntly of associating with Romeo, a 
Montague. Mercutio, who had as much 
fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, 
replied to this accusation with some 
sharpness; and in spite of all Benvolio 
could say to moderate their wrath, a 
quarrel was beginning, when Romeo 
himself passing that way, the fierce Ty- 
balt turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and 
gave him the disgraceful appellation of 
villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel 
with Tybalt above all men, because he 
was a kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved 
by her; besides this, young Montague 
had never thoroughly entered into the 
family quarrel, being by nature wise and 



92 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



gentle, and the name of a Capulet, which 
was his dear lady's name, was now rather 
a charm toallay resentment than a watch- 
word to excite fury. So he tried to 
reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted 
mildly by the name of good Capulet, as 
if he, though a Montague, had some 
secret pleasure in uttering that name: 
but Tybalt, who hated all Montagues as 
he hated hell, would hear no reason, 
but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, 
who knew not of Romeo's secret motive 
for desiring peace with Tybalt, but look- 
ed upon his present forbearance as a sort 
of calm dishonorable submission, with 
many disdainful words provoked Tybalt 
to the persecution of his first quarrel with 
him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, 
until Mercutio fell, receiving his death's 
wound while Romeo and Benvolio were 
vainly endeavoring to part the combat- 
ants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept 
his temper no longer, but returned the 
scornful appellation of villain which Ty- 
balt had given him; and they fought till 
Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This dead- 
ly broil falling out in the midst ot Verona 
at noonday, the news of it quickly 
brought out a crowd of citizens to the 
spot, and among them the old lords Cap- 
ulet and Montague, with their wives; 
and soon after arrived the prince himself, 
who being related to Mercutio, whom 
Tybalt had slain, and having had the 
peace of his government often disturbed 
ny these brawls of Montagues and 
Capulets, came determined to put the 
law in strictest force, against those who 
should be found to be offenders. Ben- 
volio, who had been eyewitness to the 
fray, was commanded by the prince to re- 
late the origin of it, which he did, keeping 
asnear to the truth as he could without in- 



jury to Romeo, softening and excusing 
the part which his friends took in it. 
Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for 
the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her 
keep no bounds in her revenge, exhorted 
the prince to do strict justice upon his 
murderer, and to pay no attention to 
Benvolio's representation, who being 
Romeo's friend, and a Montague, spoke 
partially. Thus she pleaded against her 
new son-in-law, but she knew not yet 
that he was her son-in-law, and Juliet's 
husband. On the other hand was to be 
seen Lady Montague's pleading for her 
child's life, and arguing with some justice 
that Romeo had done nothing worthy of 
punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, 
which was already forfeited to the law 
by his having slain Mercutio. The 
prince, unmoved by the passionate ex- 
clamations of these women, on a careful 
examination of the facts, pronounced his 
sentence, and by that sentence Romeo 
was banished from Verona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had 
been but a few hours a bride, and now 
by this decree seemed everlastingly di- 
vorced! When the tidings reached her, 
she at first gave way to rage against Ro- 
meo, who had slain her dear cousin: she 
called him a beautiful tyrant, a fiend 
angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a 
wolf's nature, a serpent-heart hid with a 
flowering face, and other like contradic- 
tory names, which denoted the struggles 
in her mind between her love and her 
resentment: but in the end love got the 
mastery, and the tears which she shed 
for grief that Romeo had slain her cousin, 
turned to drops of joy that her husband 
lived whom Tybalt would have slain. 
Then came fresh tears, and they were 
altogether of grief for Romeo's banish- 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



03 



ment. That word was more terrible to 
her than the death of many Tybalts. 

Romeo, after the fray, had taken 
refuge in friar Lawrence's cell, where he 
was first made acquainted with the 
prince's sentence, which seemed to him 
far more terrible than death. To him it 
appeared there was no world out of Vero- 
na's walls, no living out of the sight of 
Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet 
lived, and all beyond was purgatory, 
torture, hell. The good friar would have 
applied the consolation of philosophy to 
his griefs; but this frantic young man 
would hear of none, but like a madman 
he tore his hair, and threw himself all 
along upon the ground, as he said, to 
take the measure of his grave. From 
this unseemly state he was roused by a 
message from his dear lady, which a little 
revived him, and then the friar took the 
advantage to expostulate with him on 
the unmanly weakness which he had 
shown. He had slain Tybalt, but would 
he also slay himself, slay his dear lady 
who lived but in his life? The noble 
form of man, he said, was but a shape of 
wax, when it wanted the courage which 
should keep it firm. The law had been 
lenient to him, that instead of death, 
which he had incurred, had pronounced 
by the prince's mouth only banishment. 
He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would 
have slain him: there was a sort of happi- 
ness in that. Juliet was alive, and (be- 
yond all hope) had become his dear wife, 
therein he was most happy. All these 
blessings, as the friar made them out to 
be, did Romeo put from him like a sullen 
misbehaved wench. And the friar bade 
him beware, for such as despaired (he 
said) died miserable. Then when Ro- 
meo was a little calmed, he counseled 



him that he should go that night and 
secretly take his leave of Juliet, and 
thence proceed straightways to Mantua, 
at which place he should sojourn, till the 
friar found a fit occasion to publish his 
marriage, which might be a joyful means 
of reconciling their families ; and then he 
did not doubt but the prince would be 
moved to pardon him, and he would re- 
turn with twenty times more joy than he 
went forth with grief. Romeo was con- 
vinced by these wise counsels of the 
friar, and took his leave to go and seek 
his lady, purposing to stay with her that 
night, and by daybreak pursue his jour- 
ney alone to Mantua ; to which place the 
good friar promised to send him letters 
from time to time, acquainting him with 
the state of affairs at home. 

That night Romeo passed with his dear 
wife, gaining secret admission to her 
chamber from the orchard in which he 
had heard her confession of love the night 
before. That had been a night of un- 
mixed joyand rapture ; but the pleasures 
of this night, and the delight which these 
lovers took in each other's society, were 
sadly allayed with the prospect of parting, 
and the fatal adventures of the past day. 
The unwelcomedaybreak seemed to come 
too soon, and when Juliet heard the morn- 
ing song of the lark, she would fain have 
persuaded herself that it was the night- 
ingale, which sings by night ; but it was 
too truly the lark which sung, and a dis- 
cordant and unpleasing note it seemed to 
her ; and the streaks of day in the east 
too certainly pointed out that it was time 
for these lovers to part. Romeo took his 
leave of his dear wife with a heavy heart, 
promising to write to her from Mantua 
every hour in the day, and when he had 
descended from her chamber-window, as 



<-4 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



he stood below her on the ground, in that 
sad foreboding state of mind, in which 
she was, he appeared to her eyes as one 
dead in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's 
mind misgave him in like manner ; but 
now he was forced hastily to depart, for 
it was death for him to be found within 
the walls of Verona after daybreak. 

This was but the beginning of the 
tragedy of this pair of star-crossed lovers. 
Romeo had not been gone many days, 
before the old Lord Capulet proposed a 
match for Juliet. The husband he had 
chosen for her, not dreaming that she 
was married already, was Count Paris, a 
gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no 
unworthy suitor to the young Juliet if 
she had never seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad per- 
plexity at her father's offer. She pleaded 
her youth unsuitable to marriage, the re- ! 
cent death of Tybalt, which had left her 
spirits too weak to meet a husband with 
any face of joy, and how indecorous it 
would show for the family of the Capu- 
lets to be celebrating a nuptial-feast, 
when his funeral solemnities were hardly 
over : she pleaded every reason against 
the match but the true one, namely, that 
she was married already. But Lord 
Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and 
in a peremptory manner ordered her to 
get ready, for by the following Thursday 
she should be married to Paris : and hav- 
ing found her a husband rich, young, and 
noble, such as the proudest maid in Ver- 
ona might joyfully accept, he could not 
bear that out of an affected coyness, as 
he construed her denial, she should op- 
pose obstacles to her own good fortune. 

In this extremity Juliet applied to the 
friendly friar, always her counselor in 
distress, and he asking her if she had 



resolution to undertake a desperate rem- 
edy, and she answering that she would 
go into the grave alive, rather than marry 
Paris, her own dear husband living; he 
directed her to go home, and appear 
merry, and give .her consent to marry 
Paris, according to her father's desire, 
and on the next night, which was the 
night before the marriage, to drink off 
the contents of a phial which he then 
gave her, the effect of which would be, 
that for two-and-forty hours after drink- 
ing it she should appear cold and lifeless; 
that when the bridegroom came to fetch 
her in the morning, he would find her to 
I appearance dead ; that then she would 
be borne, as the manner in that country 
was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried 
in the family vault ; that if she could put 
off womanish fear, and consent to this 
terrible trial, in forty-two hours after 
swallowing the liquid (such was its cer- 
tain operation) she would be sure to 
awake, as from a dream ; and before she 
should awake, he would let her husband 
know their drift, and he should come in 
the night, and bear her thence to Man- 
tua. Love, and the dread of marrying 
Paris, gave young Juliet strength to un- 
dertake this horrible adventure ; and she 
took the phial of the friar, promising to 
observe his directions. 

Going from the monastery, she met 
the young Count Paris, and modestly 
dissembling, promised to become his bride. 
This was joyful news to the Lord Capu- 
let and his wife. It seemed to put youth 
into the old man ; and Juliet, who had 
displeased him exceedingly by her refusal 
of the count, was his darling again, now 
she promised to be obedient. All things 
in the house were in a bustle against the 
approaching nuptials. Nocostwasspared 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



95 



to prepare such festival rejoicings as Ver- 
ona had never before witnessed. 

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank 
off the potion. She had many misgiv- 
ings, lest the friar, to avoid the blame 
which might be imputed to him for mar- 
rying her to Romeo, had given her poison ; 
but then he was always known for a holy 
man : then lest she should awake before 
the time that Romeo was to come for 
her ; whether the terror of the place, a 
vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and 
where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering 
in his shroud, would not be enough to 
drive her distracted : again she thought 
of all the stories she had heard of spirits 
haunting the places where their bodies 
were bestowed. But then her love for 
Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, re- 
turned, and she desperately swallowed 
the draught, and became insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the 
morning with music, to awaken his bride, 
instead of a living Juliet, her chamber 
presented the dreary spectacle of a life- 
less corpse. What death to his hopes ! 
What confusion then reigned through the 
whole house ! — poor Paris lamenting his 
bride, whom most detestable death had 
beguiled him of, had divorced from him 
even before their hands were joined. 
But still more piteous it was to hear the 
mournings of the old lord and lady Cap- 
ulet, who having but this one, one poor 
loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel 
death had snatched her from their sight, 
just as these careful parents were on the 
point of seeing her advanced (as they 
thought) by a promising and advanta- 
geous match. Now all things that were 
ordained for the festival were turned 
from their properties to do the office of a 
black funeral. The weddingcheerserved 



for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns 
were changed to sullen dirges, the spright- 
ly instruments to melancholy bells, and 
the flowers that should have been strewed 
in the bride's path, now served but to 
I strew her corpse. Now instead of a 
! priest to marry her, a priest was needed 
i to bury her ; and she was borne to church 
indeed not to augment the cheerful hopes 
! of the living, but to swell the dreary 
numbers of the dead. 

Bad news, which always travels faster 
than good, now brought the dismal story 
of his Juliet's death to Romeo at Mantua, 
before the messenger could arrive who 
was sent from friar Lawrence to apprise 
him that these were mock funerals only, 
and but the shadow and representation 
of death, and that his dear lady lay in 
the tomb but for a short while, expecting 
when Romeo should come to release her 
from that dreary mansion. Just before, 
Romeo had been unusually joyful and 
light-hearted. He had dreamed in the 
night that he was dead (a strange dream, 
that gave a dead man leave to think), 
and that his lady came and found him 
dead, and breathed such life with kisses 
in his lips, that he revived, and was an 
emperor ! And now that a messenger 
came from Verona, he thought surely it 
was to confirm some good news which 
his dreams had presaged. But when the 
contrary to this flattering vision appeared, 
and that it was his lady who was dead 
in truth, whom he could not revive by 
any kisses, he ordered horses to be got 
ready, for he determined that night to 
visit Verona, and to see his lady in her 
tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter 
into the thoughts of desperate men, he 
called to mind a poor apothecary, whose 
shop in Mantua he had lately passed, 






96 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE, 



and from the beggarly appearance of the 
man, who seemed famished, and the 
wretched show in his shop of empty 
boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other 
tokens of extreme wretchedness, he had 
said at the time (perhaps having some 
misgivings that his own disastrous life 
might haply meet with a conclusion so 
desperate), "If a man were to need 
poison, which by the law of Mantua it is 
death to sell, here lives a poor wretch 
who would sell it him." These words 
of his now came into his mind, and he 
sought out the apothecary, who, after 
some pretended scruples, Romeo offering 
him gold which his poverty could not 
resist, sold him a poison, which, if he 
swallowed, he told him, if he had the 
strength of twenty men, would quickly 
dispatch him. 

With this poison he set out for Verona, 
to have a sight of his dear lady in her 
tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied 
his sight, to swallow the poison, and be 
buried by her side. He reached Verona 
at midnight, and found the churchyard, 
in the midst of which was situated the 
ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had 
provided a light and a spade, and wrench- 
ing iron, and was proceeding to break 
open the monument, when he was in- 
terrupted by a voice, which by the name 
of vile {Montague, bade him desist from 
his unlawful business. It was the young 
Count Paris, who had come to the tomb 
of Juliet at that unseasonable time of 
night, to strew flowers and to weep over 
the grave of her that should have been 
his bride. He knew not what an interest 
Romeo had in the dead, but knowing 
him to be a Montague, and (as he sup- 
posed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, 
he judged that he was come by night to 



do some villainous shame to the dead 
bodies ; therefore in angry tone he bade 
him desist; and as a criminal, condemned 
by the laws of Verona to die if he were 
found within the walls of the city, he 
would have apprehended him. Romeo 
urged Paris to leave him, and warned 
him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay 
buried there, not to provoke his anger, 
or draw down another sin upon his head, 
by forcing him to kill him. But the 
count in scorn refused his warning, and 
laid hands on him as a felon, which 
Romeo resisting, they fought, and Paris 
fell. When Romeo, by the help of a 
light, came to see who it was that he 
had slain, that it was Paris, who (he 
learned on his way from Mantua) should 
have married Juliet, he took the dead 
youth by the hand, as one whom mis- 
fortune had made a companion, and said 
that he would bury him in a triumphal 
grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which 
he now opened; and there lay his lady, 
as one whom death had no power upon 
to change a feature or complexion in her 
matchless beauty, or as if death were 
amorous, and the lean abhorred monster 
kept her there for his delight; for she 
lay yet fresh and blooming, as she had 
fallen to sleep when she swallowed that 
benumbing potion ; and near her lay 
Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom 
Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his life- 
less corpse, and for Juliet's sake called 
him cousin, and said that he was about 
to do him a favor by putting his enemy 
to death. Here Romeo took his last 
leave of his lady's lips, kissing them ; 
and here he shook the burden of his 
cross stars from his weary body, swal- 
lowing that poison which the apothecary 
had sold him, whose operation was fatal 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



97 



and real, not like that dissembling potion 
which Juliet had swallowed, the effect 
of which was now nearly expiring, and 
she about to awake to complain that 
Romeo had not kept his time, or that he 
had come too soon. 

For now the hour was arrived at which 
the friar had promised that she should 
awake ; and he, having learned that his 
letters which he had sent to Mantua, by 
some unlucky detention of the mes- 
senger, had never reached Romeo, came 
himself, provided with a pickaxe and 
lantern, to deliver the lady from her con- 
finement ; but he was surprised to find 
a light already burning in the Capulet's 
monument, and to see swords and blood 
near it, and Romeo and Paris lying 
breathless by the monument. 

Before he could entertain a conjecture, 
to imagine how these fatal accidents 
had fallen out, Juliet awoke out" of her 
trance, and seeing the friar near her, she 
remembered the place where she was, 
and the occasion of her being there, and 
asked for Romeo : but the friar, hearing 
a noise, bade her come out of that place 
of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a 
greater power than they could contra- 
dict had thwarted their intents ; and 
being frightened by the noise of people 
coming, he fled ; but when Juliet saw 
the cup closed in her true love's hands, 
she guessed that poison had been the 
cause of his end, and she would have 
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, 
and she kissed his still warm lips to try 
if any poison yet did hang upon them : 
then hearing a nearer noise of the people 
coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger 
which she wore, and stabbing herself, 
died by her true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this time had come up 



to the place. A page belonging to Count 
Paris, who had witnessed the fight be- 
tween his master and Romeo, had given 
the alarm, which had spread among the 
citizens, who went up and down the 
streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, 
a Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumor 
had imperfectly reached them, till the 
uproar brought Lord Montague and Lord 
Capulet out of their beds, with the 
prince, to inquire into the causes of the 
disturbance. The friar had been appre- 
hended by some of the watch, coming 
from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, 
and weeping in a suspicious manner. A 
great multitude being assembled at the 
Capulet's monument, the friar was de- 
manded by the prince to deliver what he 
knew of these strange and disastrous 
accidents. 

And there, in the presence of the old 
lords Montague and Capulet, he faith- 
fully related the story of their children's 
fatal love, the part he took in promoting 
their marriage, in the hope in that union 
to end the long quarrels between their 
families: how Romeo, there dead, was 
husband to Juliet ; and Juliet, there dead, 
was Romeo's faithful wife : how before 
he could find a fit opportunity to divulge 
their marriage, another match was pro- 
jected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime 
of a second marriage swallowed the sleep- 
ing draught (as he advised), and all 
thought her dead : how meantime he 
wrote to Romeo, to come and take her 
thence when the force of the potion 
should cease, and by what unfortunate 
miscarriage of the messenger the letters 
never reached Romeo : further than this 
the friar could not follow the story, nor 
knew more than that, coming himself to 
deliver Juliet from that place of death, he 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



found the Count Paris and Romeo slain. 
The remainder of the transactions was 
supplied by the narration of the page 
who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, 
and by the servant who came with 
Romeo from Verona, to whom this faith- 
ful lover had given letters to be delivered 
to his father in the event of his death, 
which made good the friar's words, con- 
fessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring 
the forgiveness of his parents, acknow- 
ledging the buying of the poison of the 
poor apothecary, and his intent in 
coming to the monument, to die, and 
lie with Juliet. All these circumstances 
agreed together to clear the friar from 
any hand he could be supposed to 
have had in these complicated slaugh- 
ters, further than as the unintended 
consequences of his own well-meant, 
yet too artificial and subtle contri- 
vances. 

And the prince, turning to these old 
lords, Montague and Capulet, rebuked 
them for their brutal and irrational en- 
mities, and showed them what a scourge 
heaven had laid upon such offences, that 
it had found means even through the 
love of their children to punish their 



unnatural hate. And these old rivals, 
no longer enemies, agreed to bury their 
long strife in their children's graves ; 
and Lord Capulet requested Lord Mon- 
tague to give him his hand, calling him 
by the name of brother, as if in ack- 
nowledgement of the union of their fam- 
ilies by the marriage of the young Capulet 
and Montague ; and saying that Lord 
Montague's hand (in token of recon- 
cilement) was all he demanded for his 
daughter's jointure: but Lord Montague 
said he would give him more, for he 
would raise her statue of pure gold, that 
while Verona kept its name, no figure 
should be so esteemed for its richness 
and workmanship as that of the true 
and faithful Juliet. And Lord Capulet 
in return said, that he would raise an- 
other statue to Romeo. So did these 
poor old lords, when it was too late, 
strive to outdo each other in mutual 
courtesies : while so deadly had been 
their rage and enmity in past times, 
that nothing but the fearful overthrow 
of their children (poor sacrifices to their 
quarrels and dissensions) could remove 
the rooted hates and jealousies of the 
noble families. 



Ifl 



o 

M 

o 

> 



r 

H 




HAMLET. 



THE GHOST APPEARS TO THE SENTRIES— HAMLET AND THE KING— HORATIO TELLS OF 

the Ghost— Hamlet Sees and Talks with It— Laertes and Ophelia Discuss 
Hamlet's Love for Ophelia— Hamlet Vows to avenge His Father's 
Murder— He Feigns Madness-He Engages Players to Present a 
play portraying the Murder of His Father-He Makes Ophelia 
Think Him Mad— The Play is Given and the King Betrayed— 
hamlet Kills Ophelia's Father, and She Goes Mad and 
Kills Herself— Her Funeral— the King Plots to 
Have Hamlet Killed on a Journey to Eng- 
land—Hamlet Escapes— the Queen is pois- 
oned WITH A DRINK MEANT FOR HAMLET— 

Hamlet Kills the King and Laer- 
tes, and is Himself Slain. 




ERTRUDE, Queen of Denmark, 
becoming a widow by the sud- 
den death of King Hamlet, in 
less than two months after his death 
married his brother Claudius, which was 
noted by all people at the time for a 
strange act of indiscretion, or unfeeling- 
ness, or worse : for this Claudius did 
nowise resemble her late husband in the 
qualities of his person or his mind, but 
was as contemptible in outward appear- 
ance as he was base and unworthy in 
disposition ; and suspicions did not fail 
to arise in the minds of some that he had 
privately made away with his brother, 
the late king, with the view of marrying 
his widow, and ascending the throne 
of Denmark, to the exclusion of young 
Hamlet, the son of the buried king, and 
lawful successor to the throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised 
action of the queen make such impres- 
sion as upon this young prince, who 
loved and venerated the memory of his 



dead father almost to idolatry ; and being 
of a nice sense of honor, and a most ex- 
quisite practicer of propriety himself, did 
sorely take to heart this unworthy con- 
duct of his mother Gertrude : insomuch 
that, between grief for his father's death 
and shame for his mother's marriage, 
this young prince was overclouded with 
a deep melancholy, and lost all his mirth 
and all his good looks ; all his customary 
pleasure in books forsook him ; his 
princely exercises and sports, proper to 
his youth, were no longer acceptable ; 
he grew weary of the world, which 
seemed to him an unweeded garden, 
where all the wholesome flowers were 
choked up, and nothing but weeds could 
thrive. Not that the prospect of exclu- 
sion from the throne, his lawful inheri- 
tance, weighed so much upon his spirits, 
though that to a young and high-minded 
prince was a bitter wound and a sore 
indignity ; but what so galled him, and 
took away all his cheerful spirits, was 



IOI 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



that his mother had shown herself so 
forgetful to his father's memory : and 
such a father ! who had been to her so 
loving and gentle a husband ! and then 
she always appeared as loving and obe- 
dient a wife to him, and would hang 
upon him as if her affection grew to 
him : and now within two months, or, 
as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than 
two months, she had married again, mar- 
ried his uncle, her dead husband's 
brother, in itself a highly improper and 
unlawful marriage, from the nearness of 
relationship, but made much more so by 
the indecent haste with which it was 
concluded, and the unkingly character of 
the man whom she had chosen to be the 
partner of her throne and bed. This it 
was which, more than the loss of ten 
kingdoms, dashed the spirits, and 
brought a cloud over the mind of this 
honorable young prince. 

In vain was all that his mother Ger- 
trude or the king could do or contrive to 
divert him ; he still appeared in court in 
a suit of deep black, as mourning for the 
king, his father's death, which mode of 
dress he had never laid aside, not even 
in complement to his mother on the day 
she was married, nor could he be 
brought to join in any of the festivities 
or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) 
disgraceful day. 

What mostly troubled him was an un- 
certainty about the manner of his 
father's death. It was given out by 
Claudius, that a serpent had stung him : 
but youn^ Hamlet had shrewd suspicions 
that Claudius himself was the serpent ; 
in plain English, that he had murdered 
him for his crown, and that the serpent 
who stung his father did now sit on his 
throne. 



How far he was right in this conjec- 
ture, and what he ought to think of his 
mother — how far she was privy to this 
murder, and whether by her consent or 
knowledge, or without, it came to pass — 
were the doubts which continually 
harassed and distracted him. 

A rumor had reached the ear of young 
Hamlet that an apparition exactly resem- 
bling the dead king his father had been 
seen by the soldiers upon watch, on the 
platform before the palace at midnight, 
for two or three nights successively. 
The figure came constantly clad in the 
same suit of armor, from head to foot, 
which the dead king was known to have 
worn : and they who saw it (Hamlet's 
bosom-friend Horatio was one) agreed in 
their testimony as to the manner and 
time of its appearance : that it came just 
as the clock struck twelve ; that it looked 
pale, with a face more of sorrow than of 
anger ; that its beard was grisly, and 
the color a sable silvered, as they had 
seen it in his life-time : that it made no 
answer when they spoke to it, yet once 
they thought it lifted up its head, and 
addressed itself to motion as if it were 
about to speak ; but in that moment the 
morning cock crew, and it shrank in 
haste away, and vanished out of their 
sight. 

The young prince, strangely amazed 
at their relation, which was too consis- 
tent and agreeing with itself to dis- 
believe, concluded that it was his 
father's ghost which they had seen, and 
determined to take his watch with the 
soldiers that night, that he might have a 
chance of seeing it : for he reasoned 
with himself that such an appearance 
did not come for nothing, but that the 
ghost had something to impart, and 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



joj 



though it had been silent hitherto, yet it 
would speak to him. And he waited 
with impatience for the coming of night. 

When night came he took his stand 
with Horatio and Marcellus, one of the 
guards, upon the platform where this 
apparition was accustomed to walk : and 
it being a cold night, and the air unus- 
ually raw and nipping, Hamlet and 
Horatio and their companion fell into 
some talk about the coldness of the 
night, which was suddenly broken off by 
Horatio announcing that the ghost was 
coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Ham- 
let was struck with a sudden surprise 
and fear. He at first called upon the 
angels and heavenly ministers to defend 
them, for he knew not whether it were 
a good spirit or bad : whether it came for 
good or for evil : but he gradually as- 
sumed more courage : and his father (as 
it seemed to him) looked upon him so 
piteously, and as it were desiring to have 
conversation with him, and did in all 
respects appear so like himself as he was 
when he lived, that Hamlet could not 
help addressing him : he called him by 
his name, Hamlet, King, Father ! and 
conjured him that he would tell the 
reason why he had left his grave, where 
they had seen him quietly bestowed, to 
come again and visit the earth and the 
moonlight : and besought him that he 
would let them know if there was any- 
thing which they could do to give peace 
to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to 
Hamlet, that he should go with him to 
some more removed place, where they 
might be alone : and Horatio and Mar- 
cellus would have dissuaded the young 
prince from following it, for they feared 
lest it should be some evil spirit, who 



would tempt him to the neighboring sea, 
or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and 
there put on some horrible shape which 
might deprive the prince of his reason. 
But their counsels and entreaties could 
not alter Hamlet's determination, who 
cared too little about life to fear the 
losing of it ; and as to his soul, he said, 
what could the spirit do to that, being a 
thing immortal as itself ? And he felt as 
hardy as a lion ; and bursting from them, 
who did all they could to hold him, he- 
followed whithersoever the spirit led him. 
And when they were alone together 
the spirit broke silence, and told him that 
he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, 
who had been cruelly murdered, and he 
told the manner of it ; that it was done 
by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's 
uncle, as Hamlet had already but too 
much expected, for the hope of succeed- 
ing to his bed and crown. That as he 
was sleeping in his garden, his custom 
always in the afternoon, this treasonous 
brother stole upon him in his sleep, and 
poured the juice of poisonous henbane 
into his ears, which has such an antipa- 
thy to the life of man, that swift as 
quicksilver it courses through all the 
veins of the body, baking up the blood, 
and spreading a crust like leprosy all 
over the skin : thus sleeping, by a 
brother's hand he was cut off at once 
from his crown, his queen, and his life : 
and he adjured Hamlet, if he did ever 
his dear father love, that he would re- 
venge his foul murder. And the ghost 
lamented to his son, that his mother 
should so fall off from virtue as to prove 
false to the wedded love of her first hus- 
band, and marry his murderer : but he 
cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he pro- 
ceeded in his revenge against his wicked 



104 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE, 



uncle, by no means to act any violence 
against the person of his mother, but to 
leave her to heaven and to the stings 
and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet 
promised to observe the ghost's direction 
in all things, and the ghost vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he 
took up a solemn resolution that all he 
had in his memory, all that he had ever 
learned by books or observation, should 
be instantly forgotten by him, and noth- 
ing live in his brain but the memory of 
what the ghost had told him and enjoined 
him to do. And Hamlet related the par- 
ticulars of the conversation which had 
passed to none but his dear friend 
Horatio ; and he enjoined both to him 
and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to 
what they had seen that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost 
had left upon the senses of Hamlet, he 
being weak and dispirited before, almost 
unhinged his mind, and drove him beside 
his reason. And he, fearing that it 
would continue to have this effect, which 
might subject him to observation, and 
set his uncle upon his guard, if he sus- 
pected that he was meditating any thing 
against him, or that Hamlet really knew 
more of his father's death than he pro- 
fessed, took up a strange resolution, from 
that time to counterfeit as if he were 
really and truly mad ; thinking that he 
would be less an object of suspicion when 
his uncle should believe him incapable of 
any serious project, and that his real 
perturbation of mind would be best cov- 
ered and pass concealed under a disguise 
of pretended lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a cer- 
tain wildness and strangeness in his ap- 
parel, his speech, and behavior, and did 
so excellently counterfeit the madman, 



that the king and queen were both de- 
ceived, and not thinking his grief for his 
father's death a sufficient cause to pro- 
duce such a distemper, for they knew not 
of the appearance of the ghost, they 
concluded that his malady was love, 
and they thought they had found out the 
object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy 
way which has been related, he had 
dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, 
the daughter of Polonius, the king's 
chief councilor in affairs of state. He 
had sent her letters and rings, and made 
many tenders of his affection to her, 
and importuned her with love in honora- 
ble fashion : and she had given belief to 
his vows and importunities. But the 
melancholy which he fell into latterly 
had made him neglect her, and from the 
time he conceived the project of coun- 
terfeiting madness, he affected to treat 
her with unkindness, and a sort of rude- 
ness ; but she, good lady, rather than 
reproach him with being false to her, 
persuaded herself that it was nothing 
but the disease in his mind, and no 
settled unkindness, which had made him 
less observant of her than formerly ; 
and she compared the faculties of his 
once noble mind and excellent under- 
standing, impaired as they were with 
the deep melancholy that oppressed him, 
to sweet bells which in themselves are 
capable of most excellent music, but 
when jangled out of tune, or rudely 
handled, produce only a harsh and un- 
pleasing sound. 

Though the rough business which 
Hamlet had in hand, the revenging of 
his father's death upon his murderer, did 
not suit with the playful state of court- 
ship, or admit of the society of so idle a 




H 
W 

S 

< 
X 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



107 



passion as love now seemed to him, yet 
it could not hinder but that soft thoughts 
of his Ophelia would come between ; 
and in one of these moments, when he 
thought that his treatment of this gentle 
lady had been unreasonably harsh, he 
wrote her a letter full of wild starts of 
passion and extravagant terms, such as 
agreed with his supposed madness, but 
mixed with some gentle touches of 
affection, which could not but show to 
this honored lady that a deep love for 
her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He 
bade her to doubt the stars were fire, 
and to doubt that the sun did move, to 
doubt truth, to be a liar, but never to 
doubt that he loved her ; with more of 
such extravagant phrases. This letter 
Ophelia dutifully showed to her father, 
and the old man thought himself bound 
to communicate it to the king and queen, 
who from that time supposed that the 
true cause of Hamlet's madness was 
love. And the queen wished that the 
good beauties of Ophelia might be the 
happy cause of his wildness, for so she 
hoped that her virtues might happily 
restore him to his accustomed way again, 
to both their honors. 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than 
she supposed, or than could be so cured. 
His father's ghost, which he had seen, 
still haunted his imagination, and the 
.sacred injunction to revenge his murder 
gave him no rest till it was accomplished. 
Every hour of delay seemed to him a 
sin, and a violation of his father's com- 
mands. Yet how to compass the death 
of the king, surrounded as he constantly 
was with his guards, was no easy mat- 
ter. Or if it had been, the presence of 
the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was 
generally with the king, was a restraint 
6 



upon his purpose, which he could not 
break through. Besides, the very cir- 
cumstance that the usurper was his 
mother's husband filled him with some 
remorse, and still blunted the edge of his 
purpose. The mere act of putting a 
fellow creature to death was in itself 
odious and terrible to a disposition natu- 
rally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His 
very melancholy, and the dejection of 
spirits he had so long been in, produced 
an irresoluteness and wavering of pur- 
pose, which kept him from proceeding to 
extremities. Moreover, he could not 
help having some scruples upon his mind, 
whether the spirit which he had seen 
was indeed his father, or whether it 
might not be the devil, who he had 
heard has power to take any form he 
pleases, and who might have assumed 
his father's shape only to take advantage 
of his weakness and his melancholy to 
drive him to the doing of so desperate 
an act as murder. And he determined 
that he would have more certain grounds 
to go upon than a vision or apparition, 
which might be a delusion. 

While he was in this irresolute mind, 
there came to the court certain players, 
in whom Hamlet formerly used to take 
delight, and particularly to hear one of 
them speak a tragical speech, describing 
the death of old Priam, King of Troy, 
with the grief of Hecuba, his queen. Ham- 
let welcomed his old friends, the players, 
and remembering how that speech had 
formerly given him pleasure, requested 
the player to repeat it ; which he did in 
so lively a manner, setting forth the 
cruel murder of the feeble old king, with 
the destruction of his people and the city 
by fire, and the mad grief of the old 
queen, running barefoot up and down the 



io8 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE, 



palace, with a poor clout upon that head 
where a crown had been, and with noth- 
ing but a blanket upon her loins, 
snatched up in haste, where she had 
worn a royal robe, that it not only drew 
tears from all that stood by, who thought 
they saw the real scene, so lively was it 
represented, but even the player himself 
delivered it with a broken voice and real 
tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if 
that player could so work himself up to 
a passion by a mere fictitious speech, to 
weep for one that he had never seen, for 
Hecuba, that had been dead so many 
hundred years, how dull was he, who 
having a real motive and cue for passion, 
a real king and a dear father murdered, 
was yet so little moved that his revenge 
all this while had seemed to have slept 
in dull and muddy forgetfulness ! And 
while he meditated on actors and acting, 
and the powerful effect which a good 
play, represented to the life, has upon 
the spectator, he remembered the in- 
stance of some murderer, who, seeing a 
murder on the stage, was by the mere 
force of the scene and resemblance of 
circumstances so affected, that on the 
spot he confessed the crime which he 
had committed. And he determined 
that these players should play something 
like the murder of his father before his 
uncle, and he would watch narrowly 
what effect it might have upon him, and 
from his looks he would be able to gather 
with more certainty if he were the mur- 
derer or not. To this effect he ordered a 
play to be prepared, to the representa- 
tion of which he invited the king and 
queen. 

The story of the play was of a murder 
done in Vienna upon a duke. The duke's 
name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. 



The play showed how one Lucianus, a 
near relation to the duke, poisoned him 
in his garden for his estate, and how the 
murderer in a short time after got the 
love of Gonzago's wife. 

At the representation of this play, the 
king, who did not know the trap which 
was laid for him, was present, with his 
queen and the whole court ; Hamlet sit- 
ting attentively near him to observe his 
looks. The play began with a conversa- 
tion between Gonzago and his wife, in 
which the lady made many protestations 
of love, and of never marrying a second 
husband, if she should outlive Gonzago ; 
wishing she might be accursed if ever 
she took a second husband, and adding 
that no woman ever did so but those 
wicked women who kill their first hus- 
bands. Hamlet observed the king, his 
uncle, change color at this expression, 
and that it was as bad as wormwood 
both to him and to the queen. But 
when Lucianus, according to the story, 
came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the 
garden, the strong resemblance which it 
bore to his own wicked act upon the late 
king, his brother, whom he had poisoned 
in his garden, so struck upon the con- 
science of this usurper, that he was 
unable to sit out the rest of the play, 
but on a sudden calling for lights to his 
chamber, and affecting or partly feeling 
a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the 
theatre. The king being departed, the- 
play was given over. Now Hamlet had 
seen enough to feel satisfied that the 
words of the ghost were true, and no 
illusion ; and in a fit of gayety, like that 
which comes over a man who suddenly 
has some great doubt or scruple resolved, 
he swore to Horatio that he would take 
the ghost's word for a thousand pounds. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



109 



But before he could make up his reso- 
lution as to what measures of revenge 
he should take, now he was certainly in- 
formed that his uncle was his father's 
murderer, he was sent for by the queen, 
his mother, to a private conference in 
her closet. 

It was by desire of the king that the 
queen sent for Hamlet, that she might 
signify to her son how much his late be- 
havior had displeased them both ; and 
the king, wishing to know all that passed 
at that conference, and thinking that the 
too partial report of a mother might let 
slip some part of Hamlet's words, which 
it might much import the king to know, 
Polonius, the old councilor of state, was 
ordered to plant himself behind the hang- 
ings in the queen's closet, where he might, 
unseen, hear all that passed. This arti- 
fice was particularly adapted to the dis- 
position of Polonius, who was a man 
grown old in crooked maxims and poli- 
cies of state, and delighted to get at the 
knowledge of matters in an indirect and 
cunning way. 

Hamlet being come to his mother, she 
began to tax him in the roundest way 
with his actions and behavior, and she 
told him that he had given great offence 
to his father t meaning the king, his uncle, 
whom,- because he had married her, she 
called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely 
indignant that she should give so dear 
and honored a name as father seemed to 
him to a wretch who was indeed no bet- 
ter than the murderer of his true father, 
with some sharpness replied, "Mother, 
you have much offended my father." The 
queen said that was but an idle answer. 
"As good as the question deserved," 
said Hamlet. The queen asked him if 
he had forgotten who it was he was 



speaking to. "Alas!" replied Hamlet, 
"1 wish I could forget. You are the 
queen, your husband's brother's wife; 
and you are my mother ; I wish you 
were not what you are." " Nay, then," 
said the queen, "if you show me so little 
respect, I will send those to you that can 
speak," and was going to send the king 
or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would 
not let her go, now he had her alone, till 
he had tried if his words could not bring 
her to some sense of her wicked life ; 
and taking her by the wrist, he held her 
fast, and made her sit down. She, 
affrighted at his earnest manner, and 
fearful lest in his lunacy he should do 
her a mischief, cried out : and a voice 
was heard from behind the hangings, 
" Help, help, the queen ! " which Hamlet 
hearing, and verily thinking it was the 
king himself there concealed, he drew 
his sword, and stabbed at the place where 
the voice came from, as he would have 
stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice 
ceasing, he concluded the person to be 
dead. But when he dragged forth the 
body, it was not the king, but Polo- 
nius, the old officious councilor, that had 
planted himself as a spy behind the hang- 
ings. " O me ! " exclaimed the queen, 
" what a rash and bloody deed you have 
done!" " A bloody deed, mother," 
replied Hamlet; "but not so bad as 
yours, who killed a king and married his 
brother." Hamlet had gone too far to 
leave off here. He was now in the 
humor to speak plainly to his mother, 
and he pursued it. And though the faults 
of parents are to be tenderly treated by 
their children, yet in the case of great 
crimes the son may have leave to speak 
even to his own mother with some harsh- 
ness, so as that harshness is meant for 



no 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



her good, and to turn her from her wicked 
ways, and not done for the purpose of 
upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince 
did in moving terms represent to the queen 
the heinousness of her offence, in being 
so forgetful of the dead king, his father, 
as in so short a space of time to marry 
with his brother and reputed murderer : 
such an act as, after the vows which she 
had sworn to her first husband, was 
enough to make all vows of women sus- 
pected, and all virtue to be accounted 
hypocrisy, wedding contracts to be less 
than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be 
a mockery and a mere form of words. 
He said she had done such a deed that 
the heavens blushed at it, and the earth 
was sick of her because of it. And he 
showed her two pictures, the one of the 
late king, her first husband, and the other 
of the present king, her second husband, 
and he bade her mark the difference : 
what a grace was on the brow of his 
father, how like a god he looked ! the 
curls of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, 
the eye of Mars, and a posture like to 
Mercury newly alighted on some heaven- 
kissing hill ! this man had been her hus- 
band. And then he showed her whom 
she had got in his stead : how like a 
blight or a mildew he looked, for so he 
had blasted his wholesome brother. And 
the queen was sore ashamed that he 
should so turn her eyes inward upon her 
soul, which she now saw so black and 
deformed. And he asked her how she 
could continue to live with this man, and 
be a wife to him, who had murdered her 
first husband, and got the crown by as 
false means as a thief — And just as he 
spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he 
was in his lifetime, and such as he had 
lately seen it, entered the room, and 



Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it 
would have ; and the ghost said that it 
came to remind him of the revenge he 
had promised, which Hamlet seemed to 
have forgotten : and the ghost bade him 
speak to his mother, for the grief and 
terror she was in would else kill her. It 
then vanished, and was seen by none 
but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing 
to where it stood, or by any description, 
make his mother perceive it, who was 
terribly frightened all this while to hear 
him conversing, as it seemed to her, with 
nothing : and she imputed it to the dis- 
order of his mind. But Hamlet begged 
her not to flatter her wicked soul in such 
a manner as to think that it was his mad- 
ness, and not her own offences, which 
had brought his father's spirit again on 
the earth. And he bade her feel his 
pulse, how temperately it beat, not like 
a madman's. And he begged of her, 
with tears, to confess herself to heaven 
for what was past, and for the future to 
avoid the company of the king, and be 
no more as a wife to him : and when she 
should show herself a mother to him, by 
respecting his father's memory, he would 
ask a blessing of her as a son. And she 
promising to observe his directions, the 
conference ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to con- 
sider who it was that in his unfortunate 
rashness he had killed ; and when he 
came to see that it was Polonius, the 
father of the Lady Ophelia, whom he so 
dearly loved, he drew apart the dead 
body, and, his spirits being a little quieter, 
he wept for what he had done. 

This unfortunate death of Polonius 
gave the king a pretencefor sending Ham- 
let out of the kingdom. He would will- 
ingly have put him to death, fearing him 







HAMLET 

Act 5th, Scene rst. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



113 



as dangerous ; but he dreaded the peo- 
ple, who loved Hamlet ; and the queen, 
who, with all her faults, doted upon the 
prince her son. So this subtle king, un- 
der pretence of providing for Hamlet's 
safety, that he might not be called to ac- 
count for Polonius' death, caused him to 
be conveyed on board a ship bound for 
England, under the care of two courtiers, 
by whom he dispatched letters to the 
English court, which at that time was in 
subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, 
requiring, for special reasons there pre- 
tended, that Hamlet should be put to 
death as soon as he landed on English 
ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treach- 
ery, in the night-time secretly got at the 
letters, and skillfully erasing his own 
name, he in the stead of it put in the 
names of those two courtiers who had 
the charge of him to be put to death : 
then sealing up the letters, he put them 
into their place again. Soon after the 
ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea- 
fight commenced, in the course of which 
Hamlet, desirous to show his valor, with 
sword in hand singly boarded the enemy's 
vessel, while his own ship, in a cowardly 
manner, bore away, and, leaving him to 
his fate, the two courtiers made the best 
of their way to England, with those let- 
ters the sense of which Hamlet had 
altered to their own deserved destruction. 
The pirates who had the prince in their 
power showed themselves gentle ene- 
mies ; and knowing whom they had got 
prisoner, in the hope that the prince 
might do them a good turn at court in 
recompense for any favor they might 
show him, they set Hamlet on shore at 
the nearest port in Denmark. From that 
place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquaint- 
ing him with the strange chance which 



had brought him back to his own country, 
and saying that on the next day he 
should present himself before his majesty. 
When he got home a sad spectacle of- 
fered itself the first thing to his eyes. 

This was the funeral of the young and 
beautiful Ophelia, his once dear mistress. 
The wits of this young lady had begun to 
turn ever since her poor father's death. 
That he should die a violent death, and 
by the hands of the prince whom she 
loved, so affected this tender young maid, 
that in a little time she grew perfectly 
distracted, and would go about giving 
flowers away to the ladies of the court, 
and saying that they were for her father's 
burial, singing songs about love and about 
death, and sometimes such as had no 
meaning at all, as if she had no memory 
of what happened to her. There was a 
willow which grew slanting over a brook, 
and reflected the leaves in the stream. 
To this brook she came one day when 
she was unwatched, with garlands she 
had been making, mixed up of daisies 
and nettles, flowers and weeds together, 
and clambering up to hang her garland 
upon the boughs of the willow, a bough 
broke and precipitated this fair young 
maid, garland, and all that she had gath- 
ered, into the water, where her clothes 
bore her up for a while, during which she 
chanted scraps of old tunes, like one in- 
sensible to her own distress, or as if she 
were a creature natural to that element : 
but long it was not before her garments, 
heavy with the wet, pulled her in from 
her melodious singing to a muddy and 
miserable death. It was the funeral of 
this fair maid which her brother Laertes 
was celebrating, the king and queen and 
whole court being present, when Hamlet 
arrived. He knew not what all this show 



14 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



imported, but stood on one side, not in- 
clining to interrupt the ceremony. He 
saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, 
as the custom was in maiden burials, 
which the queen herself threw in ; and 
as she threw them she said, " Sweets to 
the sweet ! I thought to have decked thy 
bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have 
strewed thy grave. Thoushouldst have 
been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard 
her brother wish that violets might spring 
from her grave : and he saw him leap 
into the grave all frantic with grief, and 
bid the attendants pile mountains of earth 
upon him, that he might be buried with 
her. And Hamlet's love for this fair 
maid came back to him, and he could not 
bear that a brother should show so much 
transport of grief, for he thought that he 
loved Ophelia better than forty thousand 
brothers. Then discovering himself, he 
leaped into the grave where Laertes was, 
all as frantic or more frantic than he, and 
Laertes knowing him to be Hamlet, who 
had been the cause of his father's and 
his sister's death, grappled him by the 
throat as an enemy, till the attendants 
parted them : and Hamlet, after the fun- 
eral, excused his hasty act in throwing 
himself into the grave as if to brave 
Laertes ; but he said he could not bear 
that any one should seem to outgo him 
in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia, 
And for the time these two noble youths 
seemed reconciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of 
Laertes for the death of his father and 
Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked 
uncle, contrived destruction for Hamlet. 
He set on Laertes, under cover of peace 
and reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to 
a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which 
Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to 



try the match. At this match all the court 
was present, and Laertes, by direction of 
the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. 
Upon this match great wagers were laid 
by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and Laer- 
tes were known to excel at this sword- 
play, and Hamlet, taking up the foils, 
chose one, not at all suspecting the treach- 
ery of Laertes, or being careful to examine 
Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil or 
blunted sword, which the laws of fencing 
require, made use of one with a point, 
and poisoned. At first Laertes did but 
play with Hamlet, and suffered him to 
gain some advantages, which the dissemb- 
ling king magnified and extolled beyond 
measure, drinking to Hamlet's success, 
and wagering rich bets upon the issue: 
but after a few passes, Laertes, growing 
warm, made a deadly thrust at Hamlet 
with his poisoned weapon, and gave him 
a mortal blow. Hamlet, incensed, but 
not knowing the whole of the treachery, 
in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent 
weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and 
with a thrust of Laertes' own sword re- 
paid Laertes home, who was thus justly 
caught in his own treachery. In this 
instant the queen shrieked out that she 
was poisoned. She had inadvertently 
drunk out of a bowl which the king had 
prepared for Hamlet, in case that, being 
warm in fencing, he should call for drink : 
into this the treacherous king had infused 
a deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet, 
if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten 
to warn the queen of the bowl, which she 
drank of, and immediately died, exclaim- 
ing with her last breath that she was 
poisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some 
treachery, ordered the doors to be shut, 
while he sought it out. Laertes told him 
to seek no further, for he was the traitor, 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



'5 



and feeling his life go away with the 
wound which Hamlet had given him, he 
made confession of the treachery he hud 
used, and how he had fallen a victim to 
it : and he told Hamlet of the envenomed 
point, and said that Hamlet had not half 
an hour to live, for no medicine could 
cure him ; and begging forgiveness of 
Hamlet he died, with his last words 
accusing the king of being the contriver 
of the mischief. When Hamlet saw his 
end draw near, there being yet some 
venom left upon the sword, he suddenly 
turned upon his false uncle, and thrust 
the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the 
promise which he had made to his father's 
spirit, whose injunction was now accom- 
plished, and his foul murder revenged 
upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling 
his breath fail and life departing, turned 



to his dear friend Horatio, who had been 
spectator of this fatal tragedy ; and with 
his dying breath requested him that he 
would live to tell his story to the world 
(for Horatio had made a motion as if he 
would slay himself to accompany the 
prince in death); and Horatio promised 
that he would make a true report as 
one that was privy to all the circum- 
stances. And, thus satisfied, the noble 
heart of Hamlet cracked: and Horatio 
and the bystanders with many tears 
commended the spirit of their sweet 
prince to the guardianship of angels. 
For Hamlet was a loving and gentle 
prince, and greately beloved for his many 
noble and prince-like qualities, and if he 
had lived would no doubt have proved a 
most royal and complete king to Den- 
mark. 






THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



PORTIA'S SUITORS— ANTONIO BORROWS MONEY FROM SHYLOCK TO AID BASSANIO IN 

His Suit— Lorenzo and Jessica— Portia's Three Suitors try their fate— 
Bassanio Wins and is accepted— Lorenzo and Jessica Elope— Antonio 
Cannot Repay the Loan and Shylock Seeks to Make his Life For- 
feit—The trial— Portia, in Disguise, Defeats Shylock— Antonio's 
fortunes are restored— marriage of bassanio and portia— 
portia plays a trick upon him, to his great embarrass- 
MENT— NERISSA'S Similar Trick upon Gratiano — The 

TRICKS CONFESSED, AND ALL MADE HAPPY- 




HYLOCK, the Jew, lived at 
Venice ; he was a usurer, who 

had amassed an immense for- 
tune by lending money at great interest 
to Christian merchants. Shylock, being 
a hard-hearted man, exacted the pay- 
ment of the money he lent with such 
severity that he was much disliked by 
all good men, and particularly by Anto- 
nio, a young merchant of Venice ; and 
Shylock as much hated Antonio, be- 
cause he used to lend money to people 
in distress, and would never take any 
interest for the money he lent ; therefore 
there was great enmity between this 
covetous Jew and the generous merchant 
Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shy- 
lock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he 
used to reproach him with his usuries 
and hard dealings; which the Jew would 
bear with seeming patience, while he 
secretly meditated revenge. 

Antonio was the kindest man that 
lived, the best conditioned, and had the 
most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies ; 
indeed, he was one in whom the ancient 



Roman honor more appeared than in any 
that drew breath in Italy. He was 
greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens ; 
but the friend who was nearest and dear- 
est to his heart was Bassanio, a noble 
Venetian, who, having but a small patri- 
mony, had nearly exhausted his little 
fortune by living in too expensive a man- 
ner for his slender means, as young men 
of high rank with small fortunes are too 
apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted 
money, Antonio assisted him ; and it 
seemed as if they had but one heart and 
one purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, 
and told him that he wished to repair 
his fortune by a wealthy marriage with 
a lady whom he dearly loved, whose 
father, that was lately dead, had left her 
sole heiress to a large estate ; and that 
in her father's lifetime he used to visit at 
her house, when he thought he had ob- 
served this lady had sometimes from her 
eyes sent speechless messages, that 
seemed to say he would be no unwel- 
come suitor ; but not having money to 



116 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



117 



furnish himself with an appearance be- 
fitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he 
besought Antonio to add to the many 
favors he had shown him, by lending 
him three thousand ducats. 

Antonio had no money by him at that 
time to lend his friend ; but expecting 
soon to have some ships come home 
laden with merchandise, he said he 
would go to Shylock, the rich money- 
lender, and borrow the money upon the 
credit of those ships. 

Antonio and Bassanio went together 
to Shylock, and Antonio asked the Jew 
to lend him three thousand ducats upon 
any interest he should require, to be 
paid out of the merchandise contained in 
his ships at sea. On this, Shylock 
thought within himself, "If I can once 
catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the 
ancient grudge I bear him ; he hates our 
Jewish nation ; he lends out money 
gratis ; and among the merchants he 
rails at me and my well-earned bargains, 
which he calls interest. Cursed be my 
tribe if I forgive him ! " Antonio, find- 
ing he was musing within himself and 
did not answer, and being impatient for 
money, said, "Shylock, do you hear? 
will you lend the money ? " To this 
question the Jew replied, "Signor Anto- 
nio, on the Rialto many a time and often 
you have railed at me about my moneys 
and my usuries, and I have borne it with 
a patient shrug, for sufferance is the 
badge of all our tribe ; and then you have 
called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and 
spit upon my Jewish garments, and 
spurned at me with your foot, as if I 
were a cur. Well, then, it now appears 
you need my help ; and you come to me, 
and say, Shylock, lend me moneys. Has 
a dog money ? Is it possible a cur 



should lend three thousand ducats ? 
Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir, 
you spat upon me on Wednesday last, 
another time you called me dog, and for 
these courtesies I am to lend you 
moneys?" Antonio replied, "I am as 
like to call you so again, to spit on you 
again, and spurn you too. If you will 
lend me this money, lend it not to me ds 
to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to 
an enemy, that, if I break, you may with 
better face exact the penalty." "Why, 
look you," said Shylock, "how you 
storm ! I would be friends with you, 
and have your love. I will forget the 
shames you have put upon me. I will 
supply your wants, and take no interest 
for my money." This seemingly kind 
offer greatly surprised Antonio ; and 
then Shylock, still pretending kindness, 
and that all he did was to gain Antonio's 
love, again said he would lend him the 
three thousand ducats, and take no inter- 
est for his money ; only Antonio should 
go with him to a lawyer, and there sign 
in merry sport a bond, that if he did not 
repay the money by a certain day, he 
would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut 
off from any part of his body that Shy- 
lock pleased. 

"Content," said Antonio: "I will 
sign to this bond, and say there is much 
kindness in the Jew." 

Bassanio said Antonio should not sign 
to such a bond for him ; and still Anto- 
nio insisted that he would sign it, for that 
before the day of payment came his ships 
would return laden with many times the 
value of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, ex- 
claimed, " O father Abraham, what sus- 
picious people these Christians are ! 
Their own hard dealings teach them to 



n8 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



suspected the thoughts of others. I pray 
you tell me this, Bassanio : if he should 
break this day, what should I gain by 
the execution of the forfeiture ? A pound 
of man's flesh, taken from a man, is not 
so estimable, nor profitable neither, as 
the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to 
buy his favor I offer this friendship : if 
he will take it, so ; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, 
who, notwithstanding all trie Jew had 
said of his kind intentions, did not like 
his friend should run the hazard of this 
shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio 
signed the bond, thinking it really (as 
the Jew said) merely in sport. The rich 
heiress that Bassanio wished to marry 
lived near Venice, at a place called Bel- 
mont : her name was Portia, and in the 
graces of her person and her mind she 
was nothing inferior to that Portia of 
whom we read, who was Cato's daugh- 
ter, and the wife of Brutus. 

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with 
money by his friend Antonio, at the haz- 
ard of his life, set out for Belmont with 
a splendid train, and attended by a gen- 
tleman of the name of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, 
Portia in a short time consented to ac- 
cept of him for a husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he 
had no fortune, and that his high birth 
and noble ancestry was all that he could 
boast of ; she, who loved him for his 
worthy qualities, and had riches enough 
not to regard wealth in a husband, 
answered with a graceful modesty, that 
she would wish herself a thousand times 
more fair, and ten thousand times more 
rich, to be more worthy of him ; and ! 
then the accomplished Portia prettily 
dispraised herself, and said she was an 



unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, 
yet not so old but that she could learn, 
and that she would commit her gentle 
spirit to be directed and governed by him 
in all things ; and she said, "Myself and 
what is mine, to you and yours in now 
converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I 
was the lady of this fair mansion, queen 
of myself, and mistress over these ser- 
vants ; and now this house, these 
servants and myself are yours, my 
lord ; I give them with this ring," pre- 
senting a ring to Bassanio. 

Bassanio was so overpowered with 
gratitude and wonder at the gracious 
manner in which the rich and noble 
Portia accepted of a man of his humble 
fortunes, that he could not express his 
joy and reverence to the dear lady who 
so honored him by anything but broken 
words of love and thankfulness ; and 
taking the ring, he vowed never to part 
with it. 

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting- 
maid, were in attendance upon their lord 
and lady when Portia so gracefully 
promised to become the obedient wife of 
Bassanio ; and Gratiano, wishing Bas- 
sanio and the generous lady joy, desired 
permission to be married at the same 
time. 

"With all my heart, Gratiano," said 
Bassanio, " if you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the 
lady Portia's fair waiting gentlewoman, 
Nerissa, and that she had promised to be 
his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. 
Portia asked Nerissa if this were true. 
Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you 
approve of it." Portia willingly con- 
senting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then 
our wedding feast shall be much honored 
by your marriage, Gratiano." 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



ig 



The happiness of these lovers was 
sadly crossed at this moment by the 
entrance of a messenger, who brought a 
letter from Antonio containing fearful 
tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's 
letter, Portia feared it was to tell him of 
the death of some dear friend, he looked 
so pale ; and inquiring what was the 
news which had so distressed him, he 
said, " O sweet Portia, here are a few of 
the unpleasantest words that ever blotted 
paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted 
my love to you, I freely told you all the 
wealth I had ran in my veins ; but I 
should have told you that I had less than 
nothing, being in debt." Bassanio then 
told Portia what has been here related, 
of his borrowing the money of Antonio, 
and of Antonio's procuring it of Shylock 
the Jew, and of the bond by which 
Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound 
of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain 
day ; and then Bassanio read Antonio's 
letter, the words of which were — 

" Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all 
lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, 
and since in paying it is impossible I 
should live, I could wish to see you at 
my death ; notwithstanding, use your 
pleasure ; if your love for me do not 
persuade you to come, let not my 
letter." 

"Oh my dear love," said Portia, 
"dispatch the business and be gone; 
you shall have gold to pay the money 
twenty times over, before this kind 
friend shall lose a hair by my Bas- 
sanio's fault ; and as you are so dearly 
bought, I will dearly love you." Portia 
then said she would be married to Bas- 
sanio before he set out, to give him a 
legal right to her money ; and that same 
day they were married, and Gratiano 



was also married to Nerissa ; and Bas- 
sanio and Gratiano, the instant they 
were married, set out in great haste for 
Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio 
in prison. 

The day of payment being past, the 
cruel Jew would not accept of the 
money which Bassanio offered him, but 
insisted upon having a pound of Anto- 
nio's flesh. A day was appointed to 
try this shocking cause before the 
Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited 
in dreadful suspense the event of the 
trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, 
she spoke cheeringly to him, and bade 
him bring his dear friend along with him 
when he returned ; yet she feared it 
would go hard with Antonio, and when 
she was left alone, she began to think 
and consider within herself, if she could 
by any means be instrumental in saving 
the life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; 
and notwithstanding, when she wished 
to honor her Bassanio, she had said to 
him with such a meek and wife-like 
grace, that she would submit in all 
things to be governed by his superior 
wisdom, yet being now called forth into 
action by the peril of her honored hus- 
band's friend, she did nothing doubt her 
own powers, and by the sole guidance of 
her own true and perfect judgment, at 
once resolved to go herself to Venice, 
and speak in Antonio's defence. 

Portia had a relation who was a coun- 
selor in the law; to this gentleman, 
whose name was Bellario, she wrote, 
and stating the case to him, desired his 
opinion, and that with his advice he 
would also send her the dress worn by a 
counselor. When the messenger re- 
turned, he brought letters from Bellario 



120 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 



of advice how to proceed, and also every- 
thing necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid 
Nerissa in men's apparel, and putting on 
■the robes of a counselor, she took Ne- 
rissa along with her as her clerk ; and set- 
ting out immediately, they arrived at 
Venice on the very day of the trial. 
The cause was just going to be heard be- 
fore the duke and senators of Venice in 
the senate-house, when Portia entered 
this high court of justice, and presented 
a letter from Bellario, in which that 
learned counselor wrote to the duke, 
saying he would have come himself to 
plead for Antonio, but that he was pre- 
vented by sickness, and he requested 
that the learned young Doctor Balthasar 
(so he called Portia) might be permitted 
to plead in his stead. This the duke 
granted, much wondering at the youthful 
appearance of the stranger, who was 
prettily disguised by her counselor's 
robes and her large wig. 

And now began this important trial. 
Portia looked around her, and she saw 
the merciless Jew, and she saw Bas- 
sanio, but he knew her not in her dis- 
guise. He was standing beside An- 
tonio, in an agony of distress and fear 
for his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task 
Portia had engaged in gave this tender 
lady courage, and she boldly proceeded 
in the duty she had undertaken to per- 
form. And first of all she addressed her- 
self to Shylock ; and allowing that he 
had a right by the Venetian law to have 
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she 
spoke so sweetly of the noble quality of 
mercy as would have softened any heart 
but the unfeeling Shylock's ; saying, 
that it dropped as the gentle rain from 



heaven upon the place beneath ; and 
how mercy was a double blessing, it 
blessed him that gave, and him that re- 
ceived it ; and how it became monarchs 
better than their crowns, being an at- 
tribute of God himself ; and that earthly 
power came nearest to God's in propor- 
tion as mercy tempered justice : and she 
bid Shylock remember that as we all 
pray for mercy, that same prayer should 
teach us to show mercy. Shylock only 
answered her by desiring to have the pen- 
alty forfeited in the bond. "Is he not 
able to pay the money ? " asked Portia. 
Bassanio then offered the Jew the pay- 
ment of the three thousand ducats as 
many times over as he should desire ; 
which Shylock refusing, and still insisting 
upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh, 
Bassanio begged the learned young 
counselor would endeavor to wrest the 
law a little to save Antonio's life. But 
Portia gravely answered, that laws 
once established must never be altered. 
Shylock hearing Portia say that the law 
might not be altered, it seemed to him 
that she was pleading in his favor, and 
he said: "A Daniel is come to judg- 
ment ! O wise young judge, how I do 
honor you ! How much elder are you 
than your looks ! " 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her 
look at the bond ; and when she had 
read it, she said : " This bond is for- 
feited and by this the Jew may lawfully 
claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut 
off nearest Antonio's heart." Then she 
said to Shylock, " Be merciful ; take the 
money, and bid me tear the bond." 
But no mercy would the cruel Shylock 
show: and he said: "By my soul I 
swear there is no power in the tongue 
of man to alter me." "Why, then, 







MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Shylock and Jessica 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



123 



Antonio," said Portia, "you must prepare 
your bosom for the knife;" and while 
Shylock was sharpening a long knife 
with great eagerness to cut off the pound 
of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have 
you anything to say ? " Antonio, with 
a calm resignation, replied, that he had 
but little to say, for that he had prepared 
his mind for death. Then he said to 
Bassanio : "Give me your hand, Bas- 
sanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that 
I am fallen into this misfortune for you. 
Commend me to your honorable wife, 
and tell her how I have loved you ! " 
Bassanio, in the deepest affliction, re- 
plied : "Antonio, I am married to a 
wife who is as dear to me as life itself ; 
but life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
are not esteemed with me above your 
life : I would lose all ; I would sacrifice 
all to this devil here to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind- 
hearted lady was not offended with her 
husband for expressing the love he owed 
to so true a friend as Antonio in these 
strong terms, yet could not help answer- 
ing : " Your wife would give you little 
thanks if she were present to hear you 
make this offer." And then Gratiano, 
who loved to copy what his lord did, 
thought he must make a speech like Bas- 
sanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hear- 
ing, who was writing in her clerk's dress 
by the side of Portia : "I have a wife, 
whom I protest I love ; I wish she were 
in heaven, if she could but entreat some 
power there to change the cruel temper 
of this currish Jew." " It is well you 
wish this behind her back, else you 
would have but an unquiet house," said 
Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatiently : 
" We trifle time ; I pray pronounce the 



sentence." And now all was awful ex- 
pectation in the court, and every heart 
was full of grief for Antonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready 
to weigh the flesh ; and she said to the 
Jew: "Shylock, you must have some 
surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." 
Shylock, whose whole intent was that 
Antonio should bleed to death, said : 
"It is not so named in the bond." 
Portia replied : " It is not so named in 
the bond, but what of that? It were 
good you did so much charity." To this 
all the answer Shylock would make was: 
"I cannot find it; it is not in the bond." 
" Then," said Portia, "a pound of An- 
tonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, 
and the court awards it. And you may 
cut this flesh from off his breast. The 
law allows it, and the court awards it." 
Again Shylock exclaimed : "O wise 
and upright judge ! A Daniel is come to 
judgment!" And then he sharpened 
his long knife again, and looking eagerly 
on Antonio, he said: "Come, pre- 
pare ! " 

"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; 
"there is something else. This bond 
here gives you no drop of blood ; the 
words expressly are, ' a pound of flesh.' 
If in the cutting of the pound of flesh 
you shed one drop of Christian blood, 
your land and goods are by the law to 
be confiscated to the State of Venice." 
Now, as it was utterly impossible for 
Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh 
without shedding some of Antonio's 
blood, this wise discovery of Portia, that 
it was flesh and not blood that was 
named in the bond, saved the life of 
Antonio ; and all admiring the wonderful 
sagacity of the young counselor who 
had so happily thought of this expedient, 



124 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



plaudits resounded from every part of 
the senate-house ; and Gratiano ex- 
claimed, in the words which Shylock 
had used, "O wise and upright judge! 
mark, a Jew, a Daniel has come to judg- 
ment!" 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in 
his cruel intent, said with a disappointed 
look, that he would take the money ; 
and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure 
at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, 
cried out, "Here is the money !" But 
Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly; 
there is no haste ; the Jew shall have 
nothing but the penalty : therefore pre- 
pare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh ; but 
mind you shed no blood ; nor do not cut 
off more nor less than just a pound ; be 
it more or less by one poor scruple, nay, 
if the scale turn but by the weight of a 
single hair, you are condemned by the 
laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth 
is forfeited to the senate." " Give me 
my money, and let me go," said Shy- 
lock. " I have it ready," said Bassanio ; 
"here it is." 

Shylock was going to take the money, 
when Portia again stopped him, saying, 
" Tarry, Jew ; I have yet another hold 
upon you. By the laws of Venice, your 
wealth is forfeited to the State, for having 
conspired against the life of one of its 
citizens, and your life lies at the mercy 
of the duke; therefore down on your 
knees, and ask him to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, "That 
you may see the difference of our Chris- 
tian spirit, I pardon you your life before 
you ask it: half your wealth belongs to 
Antonio, the other half comes to the 
State." 

The generous Antonio then said that 
he would give up his share of Shylock's 



wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to 
make it over at his death to his daughter 
and her husband ; for Antonio knew 
that the Jew had an only daughter, who 
had lately married against his consent to 
a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a 
friend of Antonio's, which had so of- 
fended Shylock that he had disinherited 
her. 

The Jew agreed to this: and being 
thus disappointed in his revenge, and. 
despoiled of his riches, he said, " I am 
ill. Let me go home ; send the deed 
after me, and I will sign over half my 
riches to my daughter." " Get thee 
gone then," said the duke, " and sign 
it ; and if you repent your cruelty and 
turn Christian, the State will forgive you 
the fine of the other half of your riches." 

The duke now released Antonio, and 
dismissed the court. He then highly 
praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the 
young counselor, and invited him home 
to dinner. Portia, who meant to return 
to Belmont before her husband, replied, 
" I humbly thank your grace, but I must 
away directly." The duke said he was 
sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine 
with him ; and turning to Antonio, he 
added, " Reward this gentleman ; for in 
my mind you are much indebted to him." 

The duke and his senators left the 
court ; and then Bassanio said to Portia, 
"Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend 
Antonio have by your wisdom been this 
day acquitted of grievous penalties, and 
I beg you will accept of three thousand 
ducats due unto the Jew." "And we 
shall stand indebted to you over and 
above," said Antonio, "in love and 
service evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to 
accept the money ; but upon Bassania 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



125 



still pressing her to accept of some re- 
ward, she said, "Give me your gloves; 
I will wear them for your sake;" and 
then Bassanio taking off his gloves, she 
espied the ring which she had given him 
upon his finger ; now it was the ring the 
wily lady wanted to get from him, to 
make a merry jest when she saw Bas- 
sanio again, that made her ask him for 
his gloves ; and she said, when she saw 
the ring, " And for your love I will take 
this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly 
distressed that the counselor should ask 
him for the only thing he could not part 
with, and he replied in great confusion, 
that he could not give him that ring, be- 
cause it was his wife's gift, and he had 
vowed never to part with it ; but that he 
would give him the most valuable ring in 
Venice, and find it out by proclamation. 
On this Portia affected to be affronted, 
and left the court, saying, "You teach 
me, sir, how a beggar should be an- 
swered." 

"Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, "let 
him have the ring ; let my love and the 
great service he has done for me be val- 
ued against your wife's displeasure." 
Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrate- 
ful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after 
Portia, with the ring ; and then the clerk 
Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a 
ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano 
(not choosing to be outdone in generosity 
by his lord) gave it to her. And there 
was laughing among these ladies, to think, 
when they got home, how they would 
tax their husbands with giving away their 
rings, and swear that they had given them 
as a present to some woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that 
happy temper of mind which never fails 
to attend the consciousness of having 



f performed a good action ; her cheerful 
spirit enjoyed everything she saw : the 
moon never seemed to shine so bright 
before ; and when that pleasant moon 
was hid behind a cloud, then a light which 
she saw from her house at Belmont as 
well pleased her charmed fancy, and she 
said to Nerissa, " That light we see is 
burning in my hall ; how far that little 
candle throws its "beams ; so shines a 
good deed in a naughty world ; " and 
hearing the sound of music from her 
house, she said, " Methinks that music 
sounds sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered 
the house, and dressing themselves in 
their own apparel they awaited the arriv- 
al of their husbands, who soon followed 
them with Antonio; and Bassanio pre- 
senting his dear friend to the Lady Portia, 
the congratulations and welcomings of 
that lady were hardly over, when they 
perceived Nerissa and her husband 
quarreling in a corner of the room. "A 
quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is 
the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, 
it is about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa 
gave me, with words upon it like the 
poetry on a cutler's knife : Love me, and 
leave me not." 

"What does the poetry or the value of 
the ring signify?" said Nerissa. "You 
swore to me, when I gave it to you, that 
you would keep it till the hour of death; 
and now you say you gave it to the 
lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a 
woman." "By this hand," replied 
Gratiano, "I gave it to a youth, a kind 
of boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher 
than yourself; he was clerk to the young 
counselor that by his wise pleading saved 
Antonio's life: this prating boy begged 
it for a fee, and I could not for my life 



2J 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



deny him. ' Portia said, "You were 
to blame, Gratiano, to part with your 
wife's first gift. I gave my Lord Bas- 
sanio a ring, and I am sure he would 
not part with it for all the world." 
Gratiano in excuse for his fault now 
said, "My Lord Bassanio gave his 
ring away to the counselor, and then 
the boy, his clerk, that took some pains 
in writing, he begged my ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very 
angry, and reproached Bassanio for giving 
away her ring; and she said Nerissa had 
taught her what to believe, and that she 
knew some woman had the ring. Bas- 
sanio was very unhappy to have so offend- 
ed his dear lady, and he said with great 
earnestness, "No, by my honor, no 
woman had it, but a civil doctor, who 
refused three thousand ducats of me, 
and begged the ring, which when I 
denied him he went displeased away. 
What could 1 do, sweet Portia? I was 
so beset with shame for my seem- 
ing ingratitude, that I was forced to 
send the ring after him. Pardon me, 
good lady; had you been there, I think 
you would have begged the ring of me to 
give the worthy doctor." 

"Ah!" said Antonio, "1 am the un- 
happy cause of these quarrels." 

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at 
that, for that he was welcome notwith- 
standing; and then Antonio said, "I once 



did lend my body for Bassanio's sake, 
and but for him to whom your husband 
gave the ring, I should have now been 
dead. I dare be bound again, my soul 
upon the forfeit, your lord will never 
more break his faith with you." "Then 
you shall be his surety," said Portia; 
" give him this ring, and bid him keep it 
better than the other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he 
was strangely surprised to find it was the 
same he gave away ; and then Portia told 
him how she was the young counselor, 
and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio 
found, to his unspeakable wonder and 
delight, that it was by the noble courage 
and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's 
life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, 
and gave him letters which by some 
chance had fallen into her hands, which 
contained an account of Antonio's ships, 
that were supposed lost, being safely 
arrived in the harbor. So these tragical 
beginnings of this rich merchant's story 
were all forgotten in the unexpected good 
fortune which ensued ; and there was 
leisure to laugh at the comical adventures 
of the rings, and the husbands that did 
not know their own wives: Gratiano 
merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming 
speech, that 

while he lived, he'd fear no other thing 



So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 




MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Act 4th, Scene rst. 



OTHELLO. 



THE MOOR OF VENICE— THE BEAUTIFUL DESDEMONA— THE CRAFTY lAGO— DESDEMONA 
HEARS THE STORY OF OTHELLO'S WARS— THEY FALL IN LOVE AND ARE MARRIED— 
IAGO PLOTS MISCHIEF— HE PERSUADES OTHELLO THAT CASSIO LOVES DESDE- 
MONA— OTHELLO'S JEALOUS SUSPICIONS ARE AROUSED- lAGO'S SUBTLE 

insinuations-emilia made a partner in the plot— the stolen 
Handkerchief — Othello is Distracted with jealousy 
and Rage-He accuses Desdemona of Infidelity— 
Iago attempts the Murder of Cassio— Othello 
Kills Desdemona— Emilia Betrays Iago's 
deviltry-lago kills her-othello real- 
izes desdemona's innocence and 

KILLS HIMSELF IN REMORSE. 




RABANTIO, the rich senator of 
Venice, had a fair daughter, 
the gentle Desdemona. She 
was sought to by divers suitors, both on 
account of her many virtuous qualities 
and for her rich expectations. But 
among the suitors of her own clime and 
complexion she saw none whom she 
could affect : for this noble lady, who 
regarded the mind more than the features 
of men, with a singularity rather to be 
admired than imitated, had chosen for 
the object of her affections a Moor, a 
black whom her father loved, and often 
invited to his house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether 
condemned for the unsuitableness of the 
person whom she selected for her lover. 
Bating that Othello was black the noble 
Moor wanted nothing which might recom- 
mend him to the affections of the great- 
est lady. He was a soldier, and a brave 
one ; and by his conduct in bloody wars 
against the Turks had risen to the rank 
7 i 



of general in the Venetian service, and 
was esteemed and trusted by the State. 
He had been a traveler, and Desde- 
mona (as is the manner of ladies) loved to 
hear him tell the story of his adventures, 
which he would run through from his 
earliest recollection ; the battles, sieges, 
and encounters which he had passed 
through ; the perils he had been ex- 
posed to by land and by water : his hair- 
breadth escapes when he had entered 
a breach, or marched up to the mouth of 
a cannon, and how he had been taken 
prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold 
to slavery : how he demeaned himself in 
that state, and how he escaped : all 
these accounts, added to the narration of 
the strange things he had seen in foreign 
countries, the vast wildernesses and ro- 
mantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks 
and mountains, whose heads are in the 
clouds ; of the savage nations ; the canni- 
bals who are man-eaters, and a race of 
people in Africa whose heads do grow 



29 



i 3 o 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



beneath their shoulders : these trav- 
elers' stories would so enchain the atten- 
tion of Desdemona, that if she were 
called off at any time by household af- 
fairs, she would dispatch with all haste 
that business, and return, and with a 
greedy ear devour Othello's discourse. 
And once he took advantage of a pliant 
hour and drew from her a prayer, that 
he would tell her the whole story of his 
life at large, of which she had heard so 
much, but only by parts : to which he 
consented, and beguiled her of many a 
tear, when he spoke of some distressful 
stroke which his youth suffered. 

His story being done, she gave him 
for his pains a world of sighs ; she swore 
a pretty oath, that it was all passing 
strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful : 
she wished (she said) she had not heard 
it, yet she wished that Heaven had made 
her such a man : and she thanked him, 
and told him, if he had a friend who 
loved her, he had only to teach him how 
to tell his story, and that would woo her. 
Upon this hint, delivered not with more 
frankness than modesty, accompanied 
with a certain bewitching prettiness and 
blushes which Othello could not but 
understand, he spoke more openly of his 
love, and in this golden opportunity 
gained the consent of the generous Lady 
Desdemona privately to marry him. 

Neither Othello's color nor his fortune 
was such that it could be hoped Brabantio 
would accept him for a son-in-law. He 
had left his daughter free ; but he did 
expect that, as the manner of noble 
Venetian ladies was, she would choose 
ere long a husband of senatorial rank 
or expectations: but in this he was 
deceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, 
though he was black, and devoted her 



heart and fortunes to his valiant parts 
and qualities : so was her heart subdued 
to an implicit devotion to the man she 
had selected for a husband, that his very 
color, which to all but this discerning 
lady would have proved an insurmount- 
able objection, was by her esteemed 
above all the white skins and clear com- 
plexions of the young Venetian nobility, 
her suitors. 

Their marriage, which though privately 
carried, could not long be kept a secret, 
came to the ears of the old man, Bra- 
bantio, who appeared in a solemn council 
of the Senate as an accuser of the Moor 
Othello, who by spells and witchcraft 
(he maintained) had seduced the affec- 
tions of the fair Desdemona to marry 
him, without the consent of her father, 
and against the obligations of hospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened 
that the State of Venice had immediate 
need of the services of Othello, news 
having arrived that the Turks with 
mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, 
which was bending its course to the 
island of Cyprus, with intent to regain 
that strong post from the Venetians, 
who then held it : in this emergency the 
State turned its eyes upon Othello, who 
alone was deemed adequate to conduct 
the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. 
So that Othello, now summoned before 
the Senate, stood in their presence at 
once as a candidate for a great state 
employment, and as a culprit charged 
with offences which by the laws of Ven- 
ice were made capital. 

The age and senatorial character of 
old Brabantio commanded a most patient 
hearing from that grave assembly ; but 
the incensed father conducted his ac- 
cusation with so much intemperance, 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



131 



producing likelihoods and allegations for 
proofs that, when Othello was called 
upon for his defence he had only to re- 
late a plain tale of the course of his love; 
which he did with such an artless elo- 
quence, recounting the whole story of 
his wooing, as we have related it above, 
and delivered his speech with so noble 
a plainness (the evidence of truth), that 
the duke, who sat as chief judge, could 
not help confessing that a tale so told 
would have won his daughter too : and 
the spells and conjurations which Othello 
had used in his courtship plainly appeared 
to have been more than the honest arts 
of men in love : and the only witchcraft 
which he had used, the faculty of telling 
a soft tale to win a lady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was con- 
firmed by the testimony of the Lady 
Desdemona herself, who appeared in 
court, and professing a duty to her 
father for life and education, challenged 
leave of him to profess a yet higher duty 
to her lord and husband, even so much 
as her mother had shown in preferring 
him (Brabantio) above her father. 

The old senator, unable to maintain 
his plea, called the Moor to him with 
many expressions of sorrow, and, as an 
act of necessity, bestowed upon him his 
daughter, whom, if he had been free to 
withhold her (he told him) he would 
with all his heart have kept from him ; 
adding, that he was glad at soul that he 
had no other child, for this behavior of 
Desdemona would have taught him to be 
a tyrant, and hang clogs on them for her 
desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, 
to whom custom had rendered the hard- 
ships of a military life as natural as food 
and rest are to other men, readily under- 



took the management of the wars in 
Cyprus : and Desdemona, preferring the 
honor of her lord (though with danger) 
before the indulgence of those idle delights 
in which new-married people usually 
waste their time, cheerfully consented to 
his going. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady 
landed in Cyprus, than news arrived 
that a desperate tempest had dispersed 
the Turkish fleet, and thus the island 
was secure from any immediate appre- 
hension of an attack. But the war which 
Othello was to suffer was now beginning ; 
and the enemies which malice stirred up 
against this innocent lady proved in their 
nature more deadly than strangers or 
infidels. 

Among all the general's friends, no 
one possessed the confidence of Othello 
more entirely than Cassio. Michael 
Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine, 
gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, 
favorite qualities with women ; he was 
handsome, and eloquent, and exactly 
such a person as might alarm the jealousy 
of a man advanced in years (as Othello 
in some measure was), who had married 
a young and beautiful wife ; but Othello 
was as free from jealousy as he was 
noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as 
of doing, a base action. He had em- 
ployed this Cassio in his love affair with 
Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort 
of go-between in his suit : for Othello, 
fearing that himself had not those soft 
parts of conversation which please ladies, 
and finding these qualities in his friend, 
would often depute Cassio to go (as he 
phrased it) a-courting for him : such 
innocent simplicity being an honor rather 
than a blemish to the character of the 
valiant Moor. So that no wonder if next 



132 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



to Othello himself (but at far distance, 
as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle 
Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. 
Nor had the marriage of this couple made 
any difference in their behavior to Michael 
Cassio. He frequented their house, and 
his free and rattling talk was no unpleas- 
ing variety to Othello, who was himself 
of a more serious temper : for such 
tempers are observed often to delight in 
their contraries, as a relief from the op- 
pressive excess of their own: and Des- 
demona and Cassio would talk and laugh 
together, as in the days when he went 
a-courting for his friend. 

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to 
be the lieutenant, a place of trust, and 
nearest to the general's person. This 
promotion gave great offence to Iago, an 
older officer, who thought he had a better 
claim than Cassio, and would often ridi- 
cule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for the 
company of ladies, and one that knew 
no more of the art of war, or how to set 
an army in array for battle, than a girl. 
Iago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello 
as well for favoring Cassio as for an un- 
just suspicion which he had lightly taken 
up against Othello, that the Moor was 
too fond of Iago's wife Emilia. From 
these imaginary provocations, the plotting 
mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme 
of revenge, which should involve both 
Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona in one 
common ruin. 

Iago was artful, and had studied human 
nature deeply, and he knew that of all 
the torments which afflict the mind of 
man (and far beyond bodily torture), 
the pains of jealousy were the most in- 
tolerable, and had the sorest sting. If 
he could succeed in making Othello 
jealous of Cassio, he thought it would 



be an exquisite plot of revenge, and 
might end in the death of Cassio or 
Othello, or both ; he cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady 
in Cyprus, meeting with the news of the 
dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a 
sort of holiday in the island. Everybody 
gave themselves up to feasting and mak- 
ing merry. Wine flowed in abundance, 
and cups went round to the health of 
the black Othello, and his lady, the fair 
Desdemona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard 
that night, with a charge from Othello 
to keep the soldiers from excess in drink- 
ing, that no brawl might arise, to fright 
the inhabitants, or disgust them with the 
new-landed forces. That night Iago 
began his deep-laid plans of mischief; 
under color of loyalty and love to the 
general, he enticed Cassio to make 
rather too free with the bottle (a great 
fault in an officer upon guard). Cassio 
for a time resisted, but he could not long 
hold out against the honest freedom 
which Iago knew how to put on, but 
kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago 
still plied him with drink and encourag- 
ing songs), and Cassio's tongue ran over 
in praise of the lady Desdemona, who 
he again and again toasted, affirming 
that she was a most exquisite lady : until 
at last the enemy which he put into his 
mouth stole away his brains ; and upon 
some provocation given him by a fellow 
whom Iago had set on, swords were 
drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer 
who interfered to appease the dispute, 
was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
now began to be general, and Iago, who 
had set on foot the mischief, was fore- 
most in spreading the alarm, causing the 
castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous 



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TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



135 



mutiny, instead of a slight drunken quar- 
rel, had arisen) : the alarm-bell ringing 
awakened Othello, who, dressing, in a 
hurry, and coming to the scene of action, 
questioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio 
was now come to himself, the effect of 
the wine having a little gone off, but 
was too much ashamed to reply; and 
Iago, pretending a great reluctance to 
accuse Cassio, but as it were forced into 
it by Othello, who insisted to know the 
truth, gave an account of the whole 
matter (leaving out his own share in it, 
which Cassio was too far gone to re- 
member) in such a manner, as while he 
seemed to make Cassio's offence less, 
did indeed make it appear greater than 
it was. The result was, that Othello, 
who was a a strict observer of discipline, 
was compelled to take away Cassio's 
place of lieutenant from him. 

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed 
completely : he had now undermined his 
hatred rival and thrust him out of his 
place : but a further use was hereafter 
to be made of the adventure of this dis- 
astrous night. 

Cassio, whom this misfortune had 
entirely sobered, now lamented to his 
seeming friend Iago, that he should have 
been such a fool as to transform himself 
into a beast. He was undone, for how 
could he ask the general for his place 
again ! he would tell him he was a 
drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, 
affecting to make light of it, said that 
he, or any man living, might get drunk 
upon occasion ; it remained now to make 
the best of a bad bargain ; the general's 
wife was now the general, and could do 
anything with Othello ; that he were 
best to apply to the Lady Desdemona to 
mediate for him with her lord ; that she 



was of a frank, obliging disposition, and 
would readily undertake a good office of 
this sort, and set Cassio right again in 
the general's favor ; and then this crack 
in their love would be made stronger 
than ever. A good advice of Iago, if it 
had not been given for wicked purposes, 
which will after appear. 

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and 
made application to the Lady Desde- 
mona, who was easy to be won over in 
any honest suit ; and she promised Cas- 
sio that she would be his solicitor with 
her lord, and rather die than give up his 
cause. This she immediately set about 
in so earnest and pretty a manner, that 
Othello, who was mortally offended 
with Cassio, could not put her off. 
When he pleaded delay, and that it was 
too soon to pardon such an offender, she 
would not be beat back, but insisted that 
it should be the next night, or the morn- 
ing after, or the next morning to that at 
farthest. Then she showed how peni- 
tent and humbled poor Cassio was, and 
that his offence did not deserve so sharp 
a check. And when Othello still hung 
back, "What ! my lord," said she, "that 
I should have so much to do to plead for 
Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came a- 
courting for you, and oftentimes when I 
have spoken in dispraise of you, has 
taken your part ? " I count this but a 
little thing to ask of you. When I mean 
to try your love indeed, I shall ask a 
weighty matter." Othello could deny 
nothing to such a pleader, and only re- 
questing that Desdemona would leave 
the time to him, promised to receive 
Michael Cassio again into favor. 

It happened that Othello and Iago had 
entered into the room where Desdemona 
was, just as Cassio, who had been 



5 6 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



imploring her intercession, was departing 
at the opposite door ; and Iago, who was 
full of art, said in a low voice, as if to 
himself, "I like not that." Othello 
took no great notice of what he said ; 
indeed, the conferencewhich immediately 
took place with his lady put it out of his 
head : but he remembered it afterwards. 
For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as 
if for mere satisfaction of his thought, 
questioned Othello whether Michael 
Cassio, when Othello was courting his 
lady, knew of his love. To this the 
general answering in the affirmative, and 
adding, that he had gone between them 
very often during the courtship, Iago 
knitted his brow, as if he had got fresh 
light of some terrible matter, and cried, 
" Indeed ! " This brought into Othello's 
mind the words which Iago had let fall 
upon entering the room and seeing Cas- 
sio with Desdemona ; and he began to 
think there was some meaning in all 
this : for he deemed Iago to be a just 
man, and full of love and honesty, and 
what in a false knave would be tricks, in 
him seemed to be the natural workings of 
an honest mind, big with something too 
great for utterance : and Othello prayed 
Iago to speak what he knew, and to give 
his worst thoughts words. "And what," 
said Iago, "if some thoughts very vile 
should have intruded into my breast, as 
where is the palace into which foul 
things do not enter ? " Then Iago went 
on to say, what a pity it were if any 
trouble should arise to Othello out of 
his imperfect observations ; that it 
would not be for Othello's peace to 
know his thoughts ; that people's good 
names were not to be taken away for 
slight suspicions ; and when Othello's 
curiosity was raised almost to distraction 



with these hints and scattered words, 
Iago, as if in earnest care for Othello's 
peace of mind, besought him to beware 
of jealousy : with such art did this vil- 
lain raise suspicions in the unguarded 
Othello, by the very caution which he 
pretended to give him against suspicion. 
"I know," said Othello, "that my 
wife is fair, loves company and feasting, 
is free of speech, sings, plays and dances 
well : but where virtue is these qualities 
are virtuous. I must have proof before I 
think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if 
glad that Othello was slow to believe ill 
of his lady, frankly declared that he 
had no proof, but begged Othello to ob- 
serve her behavior well when Cassio 
was by ; not to be jealous nor too secure 
neither, for that he (Iago) knew the dis- 
positions of the Italian ladies, his coun- 
trywomen, better than Othello could do; 
and that in Venice the wives let heaven 
see many pranks they dared not show 
their husbands. Then he artfully insin- 
uated that Desdemona deceived her 
father in marrying with Othello, and 
carried it so closely, that the poor old 
man thought that witchcraft had been 
used. Othello was much moved with 
this argument, and brought the matter 
home to him, for if she had deceived her 
father, why might she not deceive her 
husband ? 

Iago begged pardon for having moved 
him ; but Othello, assuming an indiffer- 
ence, while he was really shaken with 
inward grief at Iago's words, begged 
him to go on, which Iago did with many 
apologies, as if unwilling to produce 
anything against Cassio, whom he called 
his friend : he then came strongly to the 
point, and reminded Othello how Desde- 
mona had refused many suitable matches 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



'37 



of her own clime and complexion, and 
had married him, a Moor, which showed 
unnatural in her, and proved her to have 
a headstrong will : and when her better 
judgment returned, how probable it was 
she should fall upon comparing Othello 
with the fine forms and clear white 
complexions of the young Italians, her 
countrymen. He concluded with advis- 
ing Othello to put off his reconcilement 
with Cassio a little longer, and in the 
meanwhile to note with what earnest- 
ness Desdemona should intercede in his 
behalf ; for that much would be seen in 
that. So mischievously did this artful 
villain lay his plots to turn the gentle 
qualities of this innocent lady into her 
destruction, and make a net for her out 
of her own goodness to entrap her : first 
setting Cassio on to entreat her media- 
tion, and then out of that very mediation 
contriving stratagems for her ruin. 

The conference ended with Iago's 
begging Othello to account his wife 
innocent until he had more decisive 
proof; and Othello promised to be pa- 
tient ; but from that moment the deceived 
Othello never tasted content of mind. 
Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor 
all the sleeping potions in the world, could 
ever again restore to him that sweet rest 
which he had enjoyed but yesterday. 
His occupation sickened upon him. He 
no longer took delight in arms. His 
heart, that used to be roused at the sight 
of troops, and banners, and battle-array, 
and would stir and leap at the sound of 
a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war- 
horse, seemed to have lost all that pride 
and ambition which are a true soldier's 
virtue ; and his military ardor and all his 
old joys forsook him. Sometimes he 
thought his wife honest, and at times he 



thought her not so ; sometimes he thought 
Iago just, and at times he thought him 
not so; then he would wish that he had 
never known of it ; he was not the worse 
for her loving Cassio, so long as he knew 
it not : torn in pieces with these distract- 
ing thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's 
throat, and demanded proof of Desde- 
mona's guilt, or threatened instant death 
for his having belied her. Iago, feign- 
ing indignation that his honesty should 
be taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he 
had not sometimes seen a handkerchief 
spotted with strawberries in his wife's 
hand. Othello answered, that he had 
given her such a one, and that it was his 
first gift. "That same handkerchief," 
said Iago, "did I see Michael Cassio this 
day wipe his face with. '' "If it be as 
you say," said Othello, " I will not rest 
till a wide revenge swallow them up : 
and first, for a token of your fidelity, I 
expect that Cassio shall be put to death 
within three days ; and for that fair devil 
[meaning his lady], I will withdraw and 
devise some swift means of death for her. 
Trifles light as air are to the jealous 
proofs as strong as holy writ. A hand- 
kerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's 
hand was motive enough to the deluded 
Othello to pass sentence of death upon 
them both, without once inquiring how 
Cassio came by it. Desdemona had 
never given such a present to Cassio, 
nor would this constant lady have 
wronged her lord with doing so naughty 
a thing as giving his presents to another 
man ; both Cassio and Desdemona were 
innocent of any offence against Othello ; 
but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never 
slept in contrivance of villany, had made 
his wife (a good, but a meek woman) 
steal this handkerchief from Desdemona, 



l 3 8 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



under pretence of getting the work 
copied, but in reality, to drop it in 
Cassio's way, where he might find it, 
and give a handle to Iago's suggestion 
that it was Desdemona's present. 

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, 
pretended that he had a headache (as he 
might indeed with truth), and desired 
her to lend him her handkerchief to hold 
his temples. She did so. "Not this," 
said Othello, "but that handkerchief 1 
gave you." Desdemona had it not about 
her (for indeed it was stolen as we have 
related). "How!" said Othello, "this 
is a fault indeed. That handkerchief an 
Egyptian woman gave to my mother; 
the woman was a witch, and could read 
people's thoughts: she told my mother, 
while she kept it, it would make her 
amiable, and my father would love her; 
but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my 
father's fancy would turn, and he would 
loathe her as much as he had loved her. 
She dying gave it me, and bade me, if I 
ever married, to give it to my wife. I 
did so; take heed of it. Make it a dar- 
ling as precious as your eye." "Is it 
possible?" said the frightened lady. 
" 'Tis true ;" continued Othello; "it is 
a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had 
lived in the world two hundred years, in 
a fit of prophetic fury worked it; the silk 
worms that furnished the silk were hal- 
lowed, and it was dyed in mummy of 
maidens' hearts conserved." Desde- 
mona, hearing the wonderous virtues of 
the handkerchief, was ready to die with 
fear, for she plainly perceived she had 
lost it, and with it, she feared, the affec- 
tions of her husband. Then Othello 
started, and looked as if he were going 
to do some rash thing, and still he de- 
manded the handkerchief, which when 



she could not produce, she tried to divert 
her husband from too serious thoughts, 
and cheerfully told him, she saw all his 
talk about the handkerchief was only to 
put her off from her suit about Michael 
Cassio, whom she went on to praise (as 
Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect 
distraction burst out of the room, and 
then Desdemona, though unwillingly, 
began to suspect her lord was jealous. 

What cause she could have ministered 
to him she knew not, and then she 
accused herself for accusing the noble 
Othello, and thought to be sure that 
some untoward news from Venice, or 
some state troubles, had puddled his 
spirits, and made his temper not so sweet 
as formerly. And she said, "Men are 
not gods, and we must not look for that 
observance from them when they are 
married which they show us on the 
bridal day." And she beshrewed her- 
self for so unkindly judging of his un- 
kindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, 
and he accused her more plainly of being 
unfaithful, and of loving another man, 
but he did not name whom : and Othello 
wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the 
heavy day ! why do you weep ? " And 
Othello told her he could have borne all 
sorts of evils with fortitude — poverty, 
and disease, and disgrace; but her infi- 
delity had broken his heart: and he 
called her a weed, that looked so fair, 
and smelled so sweet, that the sense 
ached at it; and wished she had never 
been born. And when he had left her, 
this innocent lady was so stupefied with 
wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of 
her, that a weight-like sleep came over 
her, and she only desired her attendant 
to make her bed, and to lay her wedding, 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



139 



sheets upon it, saying that when people 
teach their babes, they do it by gentle 
means and easy tasks, and Othello might 
have chid her so; for in good faith she 
was but a child when she was chidden. 
And this was all the complaint which this 
gentle lady made. 

Desdemona being retired to bed, ex- 
pecting her lord would follow her, soon 
fell into a slumber, the effect of her 
troubled spirits, when Othello entered 
the chamber, full of the black purpose 
which he had meditated of putting his 
lady to death. But when he saw her 
asleep, he thought he would not shed 
her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, 
more white than alabaster. But he was 
resolved she should die, else (as he said) 
she would live to betray more men, as 
she had done him. Then he kissed her 
for the last time (as he said), and that 
kiss was so sweet, he must needs kiss 
her again ; and he wept, but he said they 
were cruel tears. 

Desdemona was awakened with his 
kisses, and she looked upon Othello, and 
she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll 
his eyes, and she knew he was always 
fatal when he looked so : and he bade 
her prepare for death, and to say her 
prayers, for he would not kill her soul. 
And this innocent wife, as she lay at his 
mercy, begged for compassion, and to 
know her fault ; and then he named 
Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he 
said) she had given him ; and as the 
guiltless lady was proceeding to clear 
herself, he suddenly would hear no 
more, but covering her up in the bed 
clothes, stifled her till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought 
into the house Cassio, wounded and 



bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his 
creatures on to assassinate ; but the fel- 
low not succeeding in his attempt to kill 
Cassio (whom he had wounded, but not 
mortally), and being himself killed by 
Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets 
were found certain letters, which made 
the guilt of Iago, and the innocence of 
Cassio, clear beyond a doubt ; and Cas- 
sio now came to beg pardon of Othello, 
and to ask wherein he had offended him, 
that he had employed Iago to murder 
him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke 
to Othello, who now plainly saw that he 
was no better than a murderer, and that 
his wife (poor innocent lady) had been 
ever faithful to him ; the extreme anguish 
of which discovery making life insup- 
portable, he fell upon his sword, and 
throwing himself upon the body of his 
dear injured lady, expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion 
of horror and amazement in the bystand- 
ers, for Othello had borne a fair reputa- 
tion, and till he was wrought upon by 
the arts of a villain, which his own noble 
nature never gave him leave to suspect, 
he was a loving and a doting husband. 
He had loved, not wisely, but too well ; 
and his manly eyes (when he learned 
his mistake), though not used to weep 
on every small occasion, dropped tears 
as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. 
And when he was dead all his former 
merits and his valiant acts were remem- 
bered. Nothing now remained for his 
successor but to put the utmost censure 
of the law in force against Iago, who was 
executed with strict tortures ; and to send 
word to the State of Venice of the lament- 
able death of their renowned general. 



MACBETH. 



THE THREE WEIRD SISTERS AND THEIR PROPHECY— MACBETH'S AMBITION— PART OF 

the prophecy fulfilled— lady macbeth's temptation— the visit of the 
King to Macbeth's Castle— The Murder of King Duncan— The Knock- 
ing at the Gate— Macbeth Hires Murderers to Slay Banquo— the 
Banquet— Banquo's Ghost Appears— The Witches on the Heath— 
the procession of ghosts— revolt of the nobles— lady 
Macbeth's Sleep-Walking Agony — the attack Upon 
Macbeth's Castle— The moving Forest— Death 
of Lady Macbeth — The Battle — Macbeth 
and Macduff Fight— Macbeth is Slain 
and Macduff Proclaimed King 
of scotland in his place. 




HEN Duncan the Meek reigned 
King of Scotland, there lived 
a great thane, or lord, called 
Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near 
kinsman to the king, and in great esteem 
at court for his valor and conduct in the 
wars ; an example of which he had lately 
given, in defeating a rebel army assisted 
by the troops of Norway in terrible num- 
bers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth 
and Banquo, returning victorious from 
this great battle, their way lay over a 
blasted heath, where they were stopped 
by the strange appearance of three 
figures like women, except that they had 
beards, and their withered skins and 
wild attire made them look not like any 
earthly creatures. Macbeth first ad- 
dressed them, when they, seemingly 
offended, laid each one her choppy finger 
upon her skinny lips, in token of silence: 
and the first of them saluted Macbeth 



with the title of Thane of Glamis. The 
general was not a little startled to find 
himself known by such creatures ; but 
how much more, when the second of 
them followed up that salute by giving 
him the title of Thane of Cawdor, to 
which honor he had no pretensions ; and 
again the third bid him, " All hail ! king 
that shall be hereafter!" Such a pro- 
phetic greeting might well amaze him, 
who knew that while the king's sons 
lived he could not hope to succeed to the 
throne. Then turning to Banquo, they 
pronounced him in a sort of riddling 
terms, to be lesser than Macbeth and 
greater! not so happy, yet much happier! 
and prophesied that though he should 
never reign, yet his sons after him 
should be kings in Scotland. They then 
turned into air and vanished ; by which 
the generals knew them to be the weird 
sisters, or witches. 

While they stood pondering on the 



140 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



141 






strangeness of this adventure, there ar- 
arrived certain messengers from the king, 
who were empowered by him to confer 
upon Macbeth the dignity of Thane of 
Cawdor. An event so miraculously cor- 
responding with the prediction of the 
witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood 
wrapped in amazement, unable to make 
reply to the messengers ; and in that 
point of time swelling hopes arose in his 
mind, that the prediction of the third 
witch might in like manner have its ac- 
complishment, and that he should one 
day reign king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you 
not hope that your children shall be kings, 
when what the witches promised to me 
has so wonderfully come to pass ? " 
" That hope," answered the general, 
" might enkindle you to aim at the 
throne ; but oftentimes these ministers 
of darkness tell us truths in little things 
to betray us into deeds of greatest con- 
sequence." 

But the wicked suggestions of the 
witches had sunk too deep into the mind 
of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the 
warnings of the good Banquo. From that 
time he bent all his thoughts how to com- 
pass the throne of Scotland. 

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he com- 
municated the strange prediction of the 
weird sisters, and its partial accomplish- 
ment. She was a bad, ambitious woman, 
and so as her husband and herself could 
arrive at greatness, she cared not much 
by what means. She spurred on the re- 
luctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt 
compunction at the thought of blood, and 
did not cease to represent the murder 
of the king as a step absolutely neces- 
sary to the fulfillment of the flattering 
prophecy. 



It happened at this time that the king, 
who out of his royal condescension would 
oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon 
gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, 
attended by his two sons, Malcolm and 
Donalbain, and a numerous train of 
thanes and attendants, the more to honor 
Macbeth for the triumphal success of his 
wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly 
situated, and the air about it was sweet 
and wholesome, which appeared by the 
nests which the martlet, or swallow, had 
built under all the jutting friezes and 
buttresses of the building, wherever it 
found a place of advantage : for where 
those birds most breed and haunt the air 
is observed to be delicate. The king en- 
tered well pleased with the place, and 
not less so with the attentions and re- 
spect of his honored hostess, Lady Mac- 
beth, who had the art of covering treach- 
erous purposes with smiles : and could 
look like the innocent flower, while she 
was indeed the serpent under it. 

The king, being tired with his journey, 
went early to bed, and in his state-room 
two grooms of his chamber (as was the 
custom) slept beside him. He had been 
unusually pleased with his reception, and 
had made presents before he retired to 
his principal officers ; and among the 
rest, had sent a rich diamond to Lady 
Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his 
most kind hostess. 

Now was the middle of night, when 
over half the world nature seems dead, 
and wicked dreams abuse men's minds 
asleep, and none but the wolf and the 
murderer is abroad. This was the time 
when Lady Macbeth waked to plot the 
murder of the king. She would not have 
undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her 



M2 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



sex, but that she feared her husband's 
nature, that it was too full of the milk of 
human kindness to do a contrived mur- 
der. She knew him to be ambitious, but 
withal to be scrupulous, and not yet pre- 
pared for that height of crime which 
commonly in the end .accompanies inor- 
dinate ambition. She had won him to 
consent to the murder, but she doubted 
his resolution : and she feared that the 
natural tenderness of his disposition 
(more humane than her own) would 
come between, and defeat the purpose. 
So with her own hands armed with a 
dagger, she approached the king's bed ; 
having taken care to ply the grooms of 
his chamber so with wine that they slept 
intoxicated and careless of their charge. 
There lay Duncan, in a sound sleep after 
the fatigues of his journey, and as she 
viewed him earnestly, there was some- 
thing in his face, as he slept, which re- 
sembled her own father; and she had 
not the courage to proceed. 

She returned to confer with her hus- 
band. His resolution had begun to 
stagger. He considered that there were 
strong reasons against the deed. In the 
first place, he was not only a subject, 
but a near kinsman to the king ; and he 
had been his host and entertainer that 
day, whose duty, by the laws of hospi 
tality, it was to shut the door against his 
murderers, not bear the knife himself. 
Then he considered how just and merci- 
ful a king this Duncan had been, how 
clear of offence to his subjects, how lov- 
ing to his nobility, and in particular to 
him ; that such kings are the peculiar 
care of Heaven, and of their subjects 
doubly bound to revenge their deaths. 
Besides, by the favors of the king, Mac- 
beth stood high in the opinion of all sorts 



of men, and how would those honors be 
stained by the reputation of so foul a 
murder ! 

In these conflicts of the mind Lady 
Macbeth found her husband inclining to 
the better part, and resolving to proceed 
no further. But she being a woman not 
easily shaken from her evil purpose, began 
to pour in at his ears words which infused 
a portion of her own spirit into his mind, 
assigning reason upon reason why he 
should not shrink from what he had 
undertaken ; how easy the deed was ; 
how soon it would be over ; and how the 
action of one short night would give to 
all their nights and days to come a sov- 
ereign sway and royalty ! Then she 
threw contempt on his change of purpose, 
and accused him of fickleness and cow- 
ardice ; and declared that she had given 
suck, and knew how tender it was to love 
the babe that milked her, but she would, 
while it was smiling in her face, have 
plucked it from her breast and dashed its 
brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, 
as he had sworn to perform that murder. 
Then she added, how practicable it was 
to lay the guilt of the deed upon the 
drunken, sleepy grooms. And with the 
valor of her tongue she so chastised his 
sluggish resolutions, that he once more 
summoned up courage to the bloody busi- 
ness. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he 
softly stole in the dark to the room where 
Duncan lay ; and as he went, he thought 
he saw another dagger in the air, with 
the handle toward him and on the blade 
and at the point of it drops of blood : but 
when he tried to grasp at it, it was noth- 
ing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding 
from his own hot and oppressed brain 
and the business he had in hand. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



i )■ 



Getting rid of this fear, he entered the 
king's room, whom he dispatched with 
one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had 
done the murder, one of the grooms, who 
slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, 
and the other cried, " Murder," which 
woke them both ; but they said a short 
prayer; one of them said, " God bless 
us!" and the other answered, ''Amen;" 
and addressed themselves to sleep again. 
Macbeth, who stood listening to them, 
tried to say, " Amen " when the fellow 
said "God bless us!" but, though he 
had most need of a blessing, the word 
stuck in his throat, and he could not pro- 
nounce it. 

Again, he thought he heard a voice 
which cried, " Sleep no more ; Macbeth 
doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, 
that nourishes life." Still it cried, "Sleep 
no more," to all the house. " Glamis 
hath murdered sleep, and therefore Caw- 
dor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall 
sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations Mac- 
beth returned to his listening wife, who 
began to think he had failed of his pur- 
pose, and that the deed was somehow 
frustrated. He came in so distracted a 
state, that she reproached him with his 
want of firmness, and sent him to wash 
his hands of the blood which stained 
them, while she took his dagger, with 
purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms 
with blood, to make it seem their guilt. 

Morning came, and with it the discov- 
ery of the murder, which could not be 
concealed ; and though Macbeth and his 
lady made great show of grief, and the 
proofs against the grooms (the dagger be- 
ing produced against them and their faces 
smeared with blood) were sufficiently 
.strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon 



Macbeth, whose inducements to such a 
deed were so much more forcible than 
such poor silly grooms could be supposed 
to have ; and Duncan's two sons fled. 
Malcolm, the eldest, sought for refuge in 
the English court ; and the youngest, 
Donalbain, made his escape to Ireland. 

The king's sons, who should have 
succeeded him, having thus vacated 
the throne, Macbeth as next heir was 
crowned king, and thus the prediction 
of the weird sisters was literally accom- 
plished. 

Though placed so high, Macbeth and 
his queen could not forget the prophecy 
of the weird sisters, that, though Mac- 
beth should be king, yet not his children, 
but the children of Banquo, should be 
kings after him. The thought of this, 
and that th„y had defiled their hands 
with blood, and done so great crimes, 
only to place the posterity of Banquo 
upon the throne, so rankled within them, 
that they determined to put to death both 
Banquo and his son, to make void the 
predictions of the weird sisters, which in 
their own case had been so remarkably 
brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great 
supper, to which they invited all the chief 
thanes; and, among the rest, with marks 
of particular respect, Banquo and his 
son Fleance were invited. The way by 
which Banquo was to pass to the palace at 
night was beset by murderers appointed 
by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo ; but 
in the scuffle Fleance escaped. From 
that Fleance descended a race of mon- 
archs who afterward filled the Scottish 
throne, ending with James the Sixth of 
Scotland and the First of England, under 
whom the two crowns of England and 
Scotland were united. 



146 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



At supper the queen, whose manners 
were in the highest degree affable and 
royal, played the hostess with a grace- 
fulness and attention which conciliated 
every one present, and Macbeth dis- 
coursed freely with his thanes and 
nobles, saying that all that was honor- 
able in the country was under his roof, 
if he had but his good friend Banquo 
present, whom yet he hoped he should 
rather have to chide for neglect than to 
lament for any mischance. Just at these 
words the ghost of Banquo, whom he 
had caused to be murdered, entered the 
room, and placed himself on the chair 
which Macbeth was about to occupy. 
Though Macbeth was a bold man, and 
one that could have faced the devil with- 
out trembling, at this horrible sight his 
cheeks turned white with fear, and he 
stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed 
upon the ghost. His queen and all the 
nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived 
him gazing (as they thought) upon an 
empty chair, took it for a fit of distrac- 
tion ; and she reproached him, whisper- 
ing that it was but the same fancy which 
had made him see the dagger in the air 
when he was about to kill Duncan. But 
Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and 
gave no heed to all they could say, while 
he addressed it with distracted words, 
yet so significant, that his queen, fearing 
the dreadful secret would be disclosed, 
in great haste dismissed the guests, ex- 
cusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a dis- 
order he was often troubled with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was 
subject. His queen and he had their 
sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and 
the blood of Banquo troubled them not 
more than the escape of Fleance, whom 
now they looked upon as father to a line 



of kings, who should keep their posterity 
out of the throne. With these miserable 
thoughts they found no peace, and Mac- 
beth determined once more to seek out 
the weird sisters, and know from them 
the worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the 
heath, where they, who knew by fore- 
sight of his coming, were engaged in pre- 
paring their dreadful charms, by which 
they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal 
to them futurity. Their horrid ingredi- 
| ents were toads, bats, and serpents, the 
eye of a newt and the tongue of a dog, 
the leg of a lizard and the wing of a 
night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth 
of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt- 
sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the 
root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have 
effect must be digged in the dark), the 
gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, 
with slips of the yew tree that roots 
itself in graves, and the finger of a dead 
child: all these were set on to boil in a 
great kettle, or caldron, which, as fast 
as it grew too hot, was cooled with a 
baboon's blood: to these they poured in 
the blood of a sow that had eaten her 
young, and they threw into the flame 
the grease that had sweated from a 
murderer's gibbet. By these charms 
they bound the infernal spirits to answer 
their questions. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether 
he would have his doubts resolved by 
them, or by their masters the spirits. 
He, nothing daunted by the dreadful 
ceremonies which he saw, boldly answer- 
ed, "Where are they? let me see them." 
And they called the spirits, which were 
three. And the first arose in the like- 
ness of an armed head, and he called 
Macbeth by name, and bid him beware 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



M7 



of the Thane of Fife ; for which caution 
Macbeth thanked him: for Macbeth had 
entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the 
Thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the like- 
ness of a bloody child, and he called 
Macbeth by name, and bid him have no 
fear, but laugh to scorn the power of 
man, for none of woman born should 
have power to hurt him ; and he advised 
him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. 
"Then live, Macduff!" cried the king; 
"What need I fear of thee? but yet I 
will make assurance doubly sure. Thou 
shalt not live; that I may tell pale-heart- 
ed Fear it lies, and sleep in spite of 
thunder." 

That spirit being dismissed, a third 
arose in the form of a child crowned, 
with a tree in his hand. He called Mac- 
beth by name, and comforted him against 
conspiracies, saying, that he should never 
be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam 
to Dunsinane Hill should come against 
him. " Sweet bodements ! good ! " cried 
Macbeth; "who can unfix the forest, 
and move it from its earth-bound roots ? 
I see I shall live the usual period of man's 
life, and not be cut off by a violent death. 
But my heart throbs to know one thing. 
Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if 
Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this 
kingdom ? " Here the caldron sunk into 
the ground, and a noise of music was 
heard, and eight shadows, like kings, 
passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, 
who bore a glass which showed the fig- 
ures of many more, and Banquo all bloody 
smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to 
them; by which Macbeth knew that these 
were the posterity of Banquo, who should 
reign after him in Scotland : and the 
witches, with a sound of soft music, and 



with dancing, making a show of duty and 
welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from 
this time the thoughts of Macbeth were 
all bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got 
out of the witches' cave, was, that Mac- 
duff, Thane of Fife, had fled to England, 
to join the army which was forming 
against him under Malcolm, the eldest 
son of the late king, with intent to dis- 
place Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right 
heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung 
with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, 
and put his wife and children, whom the 
thane had left behind, to the sword, and 
extended the slaughter to all who claimed 
the least relationship to Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the 
minds of all his chief nobility from him. 
Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm 
and Macduff, who were now approaching 
with a powerful army which they had 
raised in England ; and the rest secretly 
wished success to their arms, though for 
fear of Macbeth they could take no active 
part. His recruits went on slowly. Every- 
body hated the tyrant, nobody loved or 
honored him, but all suspected him, and 
he began to envy the condition of Dun- 
can, whom he had murdered, who slept 
soundly in his grave, against whom trea- 
son had done its worst: steel nor poison, 
domestic malice nor foreign levies, could 
hurt him any longer. 

While these things were acting, the 
queen, who had been the sole partner in 
his wickedness, in whose bosom he could 
sometimes seek a momentary repose 
from those terrible dreams which afflicted 
them both nightly, died, it is supposed 
by her own hand, unable to bear the re- 
morse of guilt, and public hate ; by which 
event he was left alone, without a soul 



148 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 



to love or care for him, or a friend to 
whom he could confide his wicked pur- 
poses. 

He grew careless of life, and wished 
for death ; but the near approach of Mal- 
colm's army roused in him what remained 
of his ancient courage, and he determined 
to die (as he expressed it) "with armor 
on his back." Besides this, the hollow 
promises of the witches had filled him with 
false confidence, and he remembered the 
sayings of the spirits, that none of woman 
born was to hurt him, and that he was 
never to be vanquished till Birnam Wood 
should come to Dunsinane, which he 
thought could never be. So he shut him- 
self up in his castle, whose impregnable 
strength was such as defied a siege : here 
he sullenly awaited the approach of Mal- 
colm. When, upon a day, there came a 
messenger to him, pale and shaking with 
fear, almost unable to report that which 
he had seen : for he averred that as he 
stood upon his watch on the hill, he 
looked toward Birnam, and to his think- 
ing the wood began to move! "Liar and 
slave," cried Macbeth, "if thou speak- 
est false thou shalt hang alive upon the 
next tree, till famine end thee. If thy 
tale be true, I care not if thou dost as 
much by me:" for Macbeth now began 
to faint in resolution, and to doubt the 
equivocal speeches of the spirits. He 
was not to fear till Birnam Wood should 
come to Dunsinane : and now a wood did 
move! "However," said he, "if this 
which he avouches be true, let us arm 
and out. There is no flying hence, nor 
staying here. 1 begin to be weary of the 
sun, and wish my life at an end." With 
these desperate speeches he sallied forth 
upon the besiegers, who had now come 
up to the castle. 



Then Macbeth remembered the words 
of the spirit, how none of woman born 
should hurt him; and smiling confidently 
he said to Macduff, "Thou losest thy 
labor, Macduff. As easily thou mayest 
impress the air with thy sword, as make 
me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, 
which must not yield to one of woman 
born." "Despair thy charm," said Mac- 
duff, "and let that lying spirit, whom thou 
hast served, tell thee that Macduff was 
never born of woman, never as the ordi- 
nary manner of men is to be born, but 
was untimely taken from his mother." 

"Accursed be the tongue which 
tells me so," said the trembling Macbeth, 
who felt his last hold of confidence give 
way; "and let never man in future be- 
lieve the lying equivocations of witches 
and juggling spirits, who deceive us in 
words which have double senses, and 
while they keep their promise literally, 
disappoint our hopes with a different 
meaning. I will not fight with thee." 

"Then live!" said the scornful Mac- 
duff; "we will have a show of thee, as 
men show monsters, and a painted 
board, on which shall be written, 'Here 
men may see the tyrant ! ' " 

"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage 
returned with despair; "I will not live to 
kiss the ground before young Malcolm's 
feet, and to be baited with the curses of 
the rabble. Though Birnam Wood be 
come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to 
me wast never born of woman, yet will 
I try the last." With these frantic 
words he threw himself upon Macduff, 
and cutting off his head, made a present 
of it to the young and lawful King Mal- 
colm ; who took upon him the govern- 
ment. 






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154 



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ONE HEART, ONE SOUL. 



POLKA MAZURKA. 



Introduction. 



JOHANN STRAUSS. 






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161 



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JUNG MANN. 




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MARCH M1LITAIRE. 



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163 



SEYMOUR SMITH. 



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164 



ANDANTE. 



PAR BEETHOVEN. 




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167 



JOHANN STRAUSS. 



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CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA. 



INTERMEZZO. 



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Andante Sostenuto. (J— 56.) 

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Cavalleria Rusticana 



170 



WHATEER MY GOD ORDAINS IS RIGHT. 



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I'M BUT A STRANGER HERE 



173 



THOMAS R. TAYLOR. 

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1. I'm but a stran - ger here, Heav'n is my home, Earth is a des - ert drear. 

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Heav'n is my home, 
Heav'n is my home, 



Dan - ger and sor - row stand, Round me on 

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174 



ANGELS, EVER BRIGHT AND FAIR. 



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HANDEL. 



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ALL HAIL THE POWER OF JESUS' NAME 



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MRS. HEMANS. 
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1. Child,amidst the flow 'rs at play, While the red light fades a -way; 

2. Traveller, in thestranger'sland, Far from thine own household band; 

3. Warrior, that from bat-tie won Breathestnow at set of sun; 



Moth-er, with thine 

Mourner, haunt-ed 

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Called thy har-vest - work to leave — Pray, ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the 
Sunshine hath not have to dwell; Sail -or on the dark' ning sea, Lift the heart and bend the 
Kindred by one ho - ly tie, Heav'n's first star a - like ye see, Lift the heart and bend the 






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knee! Sail - or on the dark' n -ing sea — Lift the heart and bend the knee! 

knee! Heav'n's first star a - like ve see — Lift the heart and bend the knee! 



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JERUSALEM THE GOLDEN 



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joys a-wait me there, What ra-dian-cy of glo - ry, What bliss beyond com-pare. 

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ONWARD, CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS. 



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diers, March -ing as to war, With the cross of 



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HARK! HARK, MY SOUL. 



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Of that new life when sin shall be no more. An - gels of Je - sus, 

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ADESTE F1DELES. 



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CHRISTMAS SONG. 



J. S. DWIGHT. 

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thus in low - ly man - ger, In all our tri - als born to be our friend, 

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STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 



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With Spirit. 




1 (Oh! say can you see, by the dawns ear - ly light, What so proud - lv we hail'd at the 
' \ Whose stripes and bright stars, thro' the per-il - ous fight, O'er the ram-parts we wateh'd, were 80 

2 j On the shore dira-ly seen, thro the mist of the deep, Where the foes haughty host in dread 
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ceak halfdis clos es? } Now it catch - es the gleam of the morn- iug's first beam, In lull 



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proof thro' the night that our flag was still there, 
glo - ry re - fleet - ed, now shines in the stream: 



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'Tis the star-span - gle<l ban - ner- 

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And where is that band who so vauntingly swore, 
'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 

A home and a country they'd leave us no more? 
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps 
pollution; 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave, 

From the terror of fight, or the gloom of the grave, 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved home and the war's desolation ; 

Blest with vict'ry and peace, may theheav'n-rescued 

land [us a nation. 

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved 

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust," 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



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SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 



Andante. 



Music by HENRY CAREY. 









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1. Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pret-ty Sal-ly; She is the 

2. Of all the days that's in the week, I dear-ly love but one day, And that's the 



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dar-ling of my heart, And she lives in our al-ley, There's ne'er a lady in the land That's half so sweet as 
day that comes between, A Sat-ur-day and Monday For then I'm drest all in my best, To walk abroad with 




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Sal-ly : She is the dar-ling of my heart, And she lives in our al-ley. 

Sal-ly : She is the dar-ling of my heart, And she lives in our al-ley. 



HOW CAN 1 LEAVE THEE? 



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1. How can I leave thee! How can I from thee part! Thou hast a 




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lone my heart, 


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ANNIE LAURIE. 



FINLAY DUNN. 



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1. Max-well-ton braes are bon-nie, Where ear- ly fa's the dew; And it's there that An - nie 

2. Her brow is like the snowdrift, Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the 

3. Like dew on the gowan ly-ing, Is the fa' o' her fai-ry feet; And like winds in sum-mer 



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Lau - rie, Gie'd me her prom - ise true, Gie'd me her prom - ise true, Which 
fair - est That e'er the sun shone on, That e'er the sun shone on; And 

sigh - ing : Her voice is low and sweet, Her voice is low and sweet ; And 






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ne'er for-got will be; And for bon-nie An - nie Lau-rie, I'd lay me doune and dee. 

dark blue is her e'e: And for bon-nie An - nie Lau-rie, I'd lay me doune and dee. 

she is a ; the world to me; And for bon-nie An - nie Lau-rie, I'd lay me doune and dee. 



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THE OPEN WINDOW. 



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H, W. LONGFELLOW. 

Andante con motto espressione 
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ALFRED SCOTT GATTY. 



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1. The old house by the lin-deus Stood si -lent in the shade, And o'er the gravelled 

2. The old Newfoundland house-dog, Was standing by the door, He looked for his 1 it-tie 

3. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet fa - mil - iar tone, But the voices of the 



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path - way The lights and shadows played, I saw the nurs - ery win - dow Wide 

play - mates Who would return no more, They walked not under the lin - dens. They 
chil - dren Will be heard in dreams a-lone, And the boy who walked be - side me, He 



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o - pen to the air, But the fa - ces of the chil -dren, They were no Ion - ger there, 
played not in the hall, But sorrow and silence and sad - ness Were hanging - ver all. 
could not un-der-stand, Why closer in mine, Ah, clos-er, I press'd his warm soft hand. 



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202 



LOVE'S OLD, SWEET SONG. 



Words by G. C. BINGHAM 



MOLLOY. 




1. Once in the drear dead days be-yond re - call, When on the world the mist be-ganto fall. 

2. Ev-en to-day we hear Love's song of yore, Deep in our hearts itdwellsfor-ev-er more; 




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Ont of the dreams that rose in happy throng Love in our hearts love sang an old, sweet song; 
Foot-steps may fal - ter, weary grow the way, Still we can hear it at the close of day, 







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And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam, Soft- ly it wove itself in - to our dream. 
So till the end, where life's dim shadows fall, Love will be found the sweetest song of all. 

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Tho' the heart be wea - ry, sad the day and long, 
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Still to us at twi - light comes Love' sold song, comes Love's old, sweet song. 






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Love's Old, Sweet Song. 



204 



A MOTHER'S SONG. 



DR. BLATHERWICK. 
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VIRGINIA GABRIEL. 




1. Sleep, ba - by, sleep, your father's a- way, Sleep, ba- by, sleep, and mother will pray, 

2. Sleep, ba - by, sleep, your father's a-way, Sleep, ba - by, sleep, and mother will pray, 



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Pray for poor fa - ther who sails on the sea, 
Pray all the night thro' the .sea's sul-len roar, 



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Pray while I'm rock-ing his 
Pray while I'm watching and 




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babe on my knee; May breez-es blow gen - tly wher - e'er he may be, And 

weep - ing so sore; Hut there's father's voice com- ing up from the shore, And 



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blow him home, safe- ly to ha - by and me ; 

ba - by and moth-er are weep-in g no more 



Safe - ly, safe-ly to 

Ba - by and mother are 



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ha - by and me, . 
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to ha - by and me. 
are weep - ing no more. 



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'TIS ALL THAT I CAN SAY. 



TOM HOOD. 



HOPE TEMPLE. 



Allegro con anima. 



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1. I love thee, I love thee, 'tis 

2. I love thee, I love thee, is 



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A Mother's Song. 



206 




all that I can say, 
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It is my vis-ion in the night, My dream - ing in the 
In all my proudest po-e - sy That cho - rus still is 



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sung, It is the verdict of my eyes A - midst 



ing when I 
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pray, I love thee, 

young; I love thee, 



I love thee, 'tis all that I can say. 

I love thee a thousand maids a - mong. 




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FRANZ APT. 




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1. In the tall boughs on the tree - top, there's a nest so snug and warm; In it 

2. And the wind blows thro' the branch-es, rocks the era - die to and fro; Hap-py 




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lies a lit - tie bir - die, safe in sun - shine, safe in storm; In it 

bir - die! chirp - ing, chirp- ing, dan-ger bir - die can- not know; Hap-py 



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lies a lit - tie bir - die, safe in sun 
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COMIF THRO' THE RYE. 




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1. Gin a bod-y meet a bod-y com-in' thro' the rye; Gin a bod-y kiss a bod-y 

2. Gin a bod-y meet a bod-y com-in' frae the town; Gin a bod-y meet a bod-y 

3. Amang the train there is a swain, I dear - ly love mysel, But what's his name or where's his hame 



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Need a bod - y cry! 
Need a bod - y frown! 
I dinna choose to tell. 



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II - ka las - sie has her lad-die, Nane they say ha'e 

II - ka las - sie has her lad-die, Nane they say ha'e 

II - ka las - sie has her lad-die, Nane they say ha'e 



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a' the lads they smile at me When 
a' the lads they smile at me When 
a' the lads they smile at me When 



com-in' thro' the rye ! 
com-in' thro' the rye! 



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REMEMBER OR FORGET. 



Andantino. 



HAMILTON AIDE. 






1. I sat be-side the streamlet, I watch'd the water flow, As we to-geth-er watch'd il One 

2. The nightingales made musical June's palace pav'd with gold, I watch'd the rose you gave me [to 



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lit - tie year a - go ; The soft rain pattered on the leaves, The April grass was wet, Ah ! fol - ly to re - 
warm red heart unfold ; But sigh t of rose and song of bird, Were fraught with wild regret, ' Tis madnass to re - 




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mem-ber'Tis wis-er to for -get, Ah! fol-ly to re-mem-ber, "Tis wis - er to for -get. 
mem-ber'Twere wisdom to for -get, 'Tis madness to re-mem-ber, 'Twere wisdom to for -get. 




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HOME, SWEET HOME. 



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1. 'Mid pleas - nres and pal - a - ces, 

2. An ex - ile from home, splendor 



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home! A charm from the skies seems to hal - low us 

gain ; The birds sing - ing gai - ly, that come at my 



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there, 
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Which, seek thro* the world, 

Give me them with that 



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home, There's no place like home,. 

home, There's no place like home,- 



there's no place like home. 

there's no place like home. 




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4 THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S 



Andante. 




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1. The harp that once thro' Ta - ra's halls The soul of mu - sic shed, Now hangs as mute on 

2. No more to chiefs and la - dies bright The harp of Ta - ra swells: The chord, a -lone that 



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Ta-ra's walls As if that soul were fled; So sleeps the pride of for-nier days, So glo-ry's thrill is 
breaks at night, Its tale of ru - in tells; Thus free-dom now so seldom wakes, The on-ly throb she 



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o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more. 

gives Is when sonic heart in- dig - nant breaks To show that still she lives. 




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BOOK IV. 



A CLUSTER OF FINE ART. 



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ART WINS THE HEART 

Thumann. 



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SISTINE MADONNA 

Raphael. 



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DESCENT FROM THE CROSS. 

Rubens. 




THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE 

Gainsborough. 




MADAME RECAMIER 

Louis TDavid Jacques 



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SHADOW OF THE 

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THE FATES 

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THE PEACEMAKER 

Greive. 




A PROPOSAL 

DeBlaas 




BUTTERFLIES 

Gampenneder. 





GALLANT HEROES 

Devoir. 






> 





NAPOLEON 

CMeissonier 






BOOK V. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 






Book V. 
Gems of Poetry. 



m 



THE TROJAN WAR. 



OW had the Grecians 
repast, 



snatch'd a short 



And buckled on their shining arms in haste, 
Troy rous'd as soon ; for on that dreadful day 
The fate of fathers, wives, and infants lay. 
The gates unfolding pour forth all their train ; 
Squadrons on squadrons cloud the dusty plain ; 
Men, steeds, and chariots shake the trembling 

ground ; 
The tumult thickens, and the skies resound. 
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos'd ; 
To lances lances, shields to shields oppos'd ; 
Host against host their shadowy legions drew ; 
The sounding darts in iron tempests flew ; 
Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries ; 
Triumphant shouts and dying groans arise ; 
With streaming blood the slipp'ry fields are 

dy'd, 
And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. 
Long as the morning beams increasing bright, 
O'er heav'n's clear azure spread the sacred 

light, 
Promiscuous death the fate of war confounds, 
Each adverse battle gor'd with equal wounds. 
But when the sun the height of heav'n ascends, 
The sire of gods his golden scales suspends 
With equal hand ; in these explores the fate 
Of Greece and Troy, and pois'd the mighty 

weight. 
Press'd with its load the Grecian balance lies 
Low sunk on earth ; the Trojan strikes the 

skies. 
Then Jove from Ida's top his horror spreads ; 
The clouds burst dreadful o'er the Grecian heads ; 
Thick lightnings flash ; the mutt'ring thunder 

rolls, 
Their strength he withers, and unmans their 

souls. 
Before his wrath the trembling hosts retire, 
The god in terrors, and the skies on fire. 

HOMER {The Iliad.) 
14 267 



HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 



dfc 



OO daring prince! Ah, whither dost thou 
run? 
Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son ! 
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, 
A widow I, a helpless orphan he? 
For sure such courage length of life denies, 
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. 
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ; 
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain ! 
Oh, grant me, gods ! ere Hector meets his doom, 
All I can ask of heav'n, an early tomb ! 
So shall my days in one sad tenor run, 
And end with sorrows, as they first begun. 
No parent now remains my griefs to share, 
No father's aid, no mother's tender care. 
Yet while my Hector still survives, I see 
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee. 
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, 
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall. 
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share ; 
Oh, prove a husband's and a parent's care. 
That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy, 
Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy. 
Thou from this tow'r defend th' important post, 
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host ; 
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strives to gain, 
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. 
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv'n, 
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heav'n. 
Let others in the field their arms employ ; 
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." 
The chief replied, " That post shall be my care; 
Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, 
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep 

the ground, 
Attaint the lustre of my former name, 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? 
My early youth was bred to warlike pains ; 
My soul impels me to the martial plains. 
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne, 



268 



GEMS OF POETRY 



To save my father's honors and my own. 
Yet come it will ! the day decreed by fates ! 
( How my heart trembles, while my tongue relates!) 
The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must bend ! 
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
And yet no presage dire so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind ; 
Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! — thy griefs I dread ! 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, 
In Argive looms our battles to design, 
And woes, of which so large a part was thine: 
There while you groan beneath the load of life, 
They cry, " Behold the mighty Hector's wife ! " 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." 

Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy 
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
The babe clung, crying to his nurse's breast 
Scar'd with the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, 
And Hector hastened to relieve his child ; 
The glitt'ring terrors from his brows unbound, 
And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. 
Then kiss'd the child, and lifting high in air, 
Thus to the gods preferr'd a parent's prayer. 

" O Thou, whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, 
And all ye deathless Pow'rs ! protect my son ! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, 
Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
And rise the Hector of the future age ! 
So when triumphant from successful toils 
Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd acclaim, 
And say,' Thischief transcendshisfather'sfame.' 
While pleas'd amidst thegen'ral shouts of Troy, 
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." 

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, 
Restored the pleasing burden to her arms ; 
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd. 
The troubled pleasure soon chastis'd with fear, 
She mingled with the smile a falling tear. 

HOMER {The Iliad.) 



AENEAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE SACK OF 
TROY. 



<h 



LL were attentive to the godlike man, 
When from his lofty couch he thus be- 
gan : 
Great queen ! what you command me to relate 
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; 
An empire from its old foundations rent, 
And ev'ry wo the Trojans underwent ; 
A pop'lous city made a desert place ; 
All that I saw, and part of which I was ; 
Not ev'n the hardest of our foes could hear, 
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 

'Twas now the dead of night, when sleep re- 
pairs 
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, 
When Hector's ghost before my sight appears ; 
Shrouded in blood he stood, and bath'd in tears. 
Such as when by the fierce Pelides slain, 
Thessalian coursers dragged him o'er the plain. 
Swoll'n were his feet, as when the thongs were 

thrust 
Through the pierced limbs ; his body black with 

■ dust. 
Unlike that Hector who returned from toils 
Of war triumphant in yEacian spoils ; 
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire, 
Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. 
His hair and beard were clotted stiff with gore ; 
The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, 
Now stream'd afresh. 
I wept to see the visionary man, 
And whilst my trance continued, thus began : 

O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, 
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! 
O long expected by thy friends ! from whence 
Art thou so late return'd to our defence? 
Alas! what wounds are these? What new dis- 
grace 
Deforms the manly honors of thy face? 

The spectre, groaning from his inmost breast, 
This warning in these mournful words express'd ; 
Haste, goddess-born ! Escape, by timely flight, 
The flames and horrors of this fatal night. 
The foes already have possess'd our wall ; 
Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. 
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name, 
Enough to country, and to deathless fame. 
If by a mortal arm my father's throne 
Could have been sav'd, this arm the feat had 
done. 



GEMS OF POETRY 



269 



Troy now commends to thee her future state, 
And gives her gods companions of thy fate. 
Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, 
And follow where thy various fortune calls. 
He said, and brought from forth the sacred 

choir, 
The gods, and relics of th' immortal fire. 
Now peals of shouts come thundering from afar, 
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. 
The noise approaches, though our palace stood 
Aloof from streets, embosom'd close with wood ; 
Louder and louder still, I hear th' alarms 
Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. 
Fear broke my slumbers. 

I mount the terrace ; thence the town survey, 
And listen what the swelling sounds convey. 
Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear'd ; 
And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd. 
The palace of Deiphobus ascends 
In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. 
Ucalegon burns next; the seas are bright 
With splendors not their own, and shine with 

sparkling light. 
New clamors and new clangors now arise, 
The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. 
With frenzy seiz'd 1 run to meet th' alarms, 
Resolv'd on death, resolv'd to die in arms. 
But first to gather friends, with whom t' oppose, 
If fortune favor'd, and repel the foes, 
By courage rous'd, by love of country fir'd, 
With sense of honor and revenge inspir'd. 
Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name, 
Had 'scap'd the Grecian's swords, and pass'd the 

flame. 
With relics loaded to my doors he fled, 
And by the hand his tender grandson led. 
What hope, O Pantheus? Whither can we 

run? 
Where make a stand? Or what may yet be 

done? 
Scarce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a 

groan, 
Troy — is no more! Her glories now are gone. 
The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come, 
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom 
Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands: 
Our city's wrapt in flames; the foe commands. 
To sev'ral posts their parties they divide ; 
Some block the narrow streets ; some scour the 

wide. 
The bold they kill ; th' unwary they surprise; 
Who fights meets death, and death finds him 

who flies. 

VIRGIL {The /Eneid). 



U 



% 



AMONG THE LOST, 



HROUGH me you pass into the city 
of woe : 

Through me you pass into eternal pain : 
Through me among the people lost for aye. 
Justice the founder of my fabric moved : 
To rear me was the task of power divine, 
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. 
Before me things create were none, save things 
Eternal, and eternal I endure. 
All hope abandon, ye who enter here." 

Such characters, in color dim, I mark'd 
Over a portal's lofty arch inscribed. 
Whereat I thus : " Master, these words import 
Hard meaning." He as one prepared replied : 
" Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave; 
Here be vile fear extinguish'd. We are come 
Where I have told thee we shall see the souls 
To misery doom'd, who intellectual good 
Have lost." And when his hand he had stretch'd 

forth 
To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was 

cheer'd, 
Into that secret place he led me on. 

Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans, 
Resounded through the air pierced by no star, 
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, 
Horrible languages, outcries of woe, 
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse. 
With hands together smote that swell'd the 

sounds, 
Made up a tumult, that forever whirls 
Round through that air with solid darkness 

stain'd, 
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. 

I then, with error yet encompassed, cried : 
"O master! what is this I hear? what race 
Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?" 

He thus to me : " This miserable fate 
Suffer the wretched souls of those, who lived 
Without or praise or blame, with that ill band 
Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious proved, 
Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves 
Were only! From his bounds Heaven drove 

them forth 
Not to impair his luster ; nor the depth 
Of Hell receives them, lest the accursed tribe 
Should glory thence with exultation vain." 

I then : "Master! what doth aggrieve them 
thus, 
That they lament so loud ? " He straight replied : 



270 



GEMS OF POETRY 



" That will I tell thee briefly. These of death 
No hope may entertain : and their blind life 
So meanly passes, that all other lots 
They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, 
Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. 
Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." 
And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, 
Which whirling ran around so rapidly, 
That it no pause obtain'd: and following came 
Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er 
Have thought that death so many had despoil'd. 

When some of these I recognized, I saw 
And knew the shade of him, who to base fear 
Yielding, abjured his high estate. Forthwith 
1 understood, for certain, this the tribe 
Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing 
And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er 

lived, 
Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung 
By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their 

cheeks 
With blood, that, mix'd with tears, dropp'd to 

their feet, 
And by disgustful worms were gather'd there. 

Then looking further onward, I beheld 
A throng upon the shore of a great stream : 
Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know 
Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they 

seem 
So eager to pass o'er, as I discern 
Through the blear light? ' ' He thus to me in few : 
" This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive 
Beside the woeful tide of Acheron." 
Then wiih eyes downward cast and fill'd with 

shame, 
Fearing my words offensive to his ear, 
Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech 
Abstain'd. And lo ! toward us in a bark 
Comes on an old man, hoary white with eld, 
Crying, " Woe to you, wicked spirits ! hope not 
Ever to see the sky again. I come 
To take you to the other shore across, 
Into eternal darkness, there to dwell 
In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there 
Standest, live spirit ! get thee hence, and leave 
These who are dead." But soon as he beheld 
I left them not, " By other way," said he, 
" By other haven shalt thou come to shore, 
Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat 
Must carry." Then to him thus spake my guide: 
"Charon! thyself torment not: so 't is will'd, 



Where will and power are one: ask thou no 
more." 
Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks 
Of him, the boatman o'er the livid lake, 
Around whose eyes glared wheeling flames. 

Meanwhile 
Those spirits, faint and naked, color changed, 
And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words 
They heard. God and their parents they blas- 
phemed, 
The human kind, the place, the time, and seed, 
That did engender them and give them birth. 

Then all together sorely wailing drew 
To the curst strand, that every man must pass 
Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, 
With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, 
Beckoning, and each, that lingers, with his oar, 
Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, 
One still another following, till the bough 
Strews all its honors on the earth beneath ; 
E'en in like manner, Adam's evil brood 
Cast themselves, one by one, down from the 

shore, 
Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. 

Thus go they over through the umber'd wave; 
And ever they on the opposing bank 
Be landed, on this side another throng 
Still gathers. " Son," thus spake the courteous 

guide, 
" Those who die subject to the wrath of God 
All here together come from every clime, 
And to o'erpass the river are not loth : 
For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear 
Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath pass'd 
Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, 
Now mayst thou know the import of his words." 

This said, the glomy region trembling shook 
So terribly, that yet with clammy dews 
Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast, 
That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame, 
Which all my senses conquer'd quite, and I 
Down dropp'd, as one with sudden slumber 
seized. 



From the first circle I descended thus 
Down to the second, which, a lesser space 
Embracing, so much more of grief contains, 
Provoking bitter moans. There Minos stands, 
Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all 
Who enter, strict examining the crimes, 
Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath, 




IN LOVK 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



273 



According as he foldeth him around : 

For when before him comes the ill-fated soul, 

It all confesses ; and that judge severe 

Of sins, considering what place in hell 

Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft 

Himself encircles, as degrees beneath 

He dooms it to descend. Before him stand 

Alway a numerous throng ; and in his turn 

Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears 

His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl'd. 

"O thou! who to this residence of woe 
Approachest ! " when he saw me coming, cried 
Minos, relinquishing his dread employ, 
" Look how thou enter here ; beware in whom 
Thou piace thy trust ; let not the entrance broad 
Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide : 
11 Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way 
By destiny appointed ; so 'tis will'd, 
Where will and power are one. Ask thou no 

more." 
Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. 
Now am 1 come where many a plaining voice 
Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came 
Where light was silent all. Bellowing there 

groan'd 
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn 
By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell 
With restless fury drives the spirits on, 
Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy. 
When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, 
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, 

moans, 
And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in 

heaven. 
I understood, that to this torment sad 
The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom 
Reason by lust is sway'd, As in large troops 
And multitudinous, when winter reigns, 
The starlings on their wings are borne abroad ; 
So bears the tyrrannous gust those evil souls. 
On this side and on that, above, below, 
It drives them : hope of rest to solace them 
Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, 
Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky, 
Stretch'd out in long array ; so I beheld 
Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on 
By their dire doom. Then I : " Instructor ! who 
Are these, by the black air so scourged? " " The 

first 
'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he 

replied, 



" O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice 

Of luxury was so shameless, that she made 

Liking be lawful by promulged decree, 

To clear the blame she had herself incurr'd. 

This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ, 

That she succeeded Ninus her espoused ; 

And held the land, which now the Soldan rules. 

The next in amorous fury slew herself, 

And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith : 

Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen." 

There mark'd I Helen, for whose sake so long 
The time was fraught with evil ; there the great 
Achilles, who with love fought to the end. 
Paris I saw, and Tristan ; and beside, 
A thousand more he show'd me, and by name 
Pointed them out, whom love bereaved of life. 

When I had heard my sage instructor name 
Those dames and knights of antique days, o'er- 

power'd 
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind 
Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly 
I would address those two together coming, 
Which seem so light before the wind." He thus: 
" Note thou, when nearer they to us approach. 
Then by that love which carries them along, 
Entreat ; and they will come." Soon as the wind 
Sway'd them toward us, I thus framed my 

speech : 
" O wearied spirits ! come, and hold discourse 
With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves 
By fond desire invited, on wide wings 
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, 
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along ; 
Thus issued; from that troop where Dido ranks, 
They, through the ill air speeding: with such 
My cry prevail'd, by strong affection urged. 

"O gracious creature and benign! who go'st 
Visiting, through this element obscure, 
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued: 
If, for a friend, the King of all, we own'd. 
Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise, 
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. 
Of whatsoever to hear or to discourse 
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that 
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, 
As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth, 
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends 
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. 

" Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, 
Entangled him by that fair form, from me 
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still : 



274 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Love, that denial takes from none beloved, 
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, 
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not. 
Love brought us to one death : Caina waits 
The soul, who split our life." Such were their 

words ; 
At hearing which, downward I bent my looks. 
And held them there so long, that the bard cried: 
"What art thou pondering?" I in answer thus : 
44 Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond 

desire, 
Must they at length to that ill pass have 

reach'd ! " 
Then turning, I to them my speech address'd, 
And thus began: " Francesca ! your sad fate 
Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
But tell me ; in the time of your sweet sighs, 
By what, and how Love granted, that ye knew 
Your yet uncertain wishes? ' She replied: 
" No greater grief than to remember days 
Of joy, when misery is at hand That kens 
Thy learn'd instructor.. Yet so eagerly 
If thou art bent to know the primal root, 
From whence our love gat being, I will do 
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, 
For our delight we read of Lancelot, 
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no 
Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading 
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue 
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point 
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, 
The wished smile so rapturously kiss'd 
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er 
From me shall separate, at once my lips 
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both 
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day 
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, 
The other wail'd so sorely, that heart-struck 
I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far 
From death, and like a corse fell to the gr ound 
DANTE {The Inferno.) 




W 



THE DAISY. 

F all the floures in the mede, 
Than love I most these floures white 
and rede, 
Soch that men callen daisies in our town ; 
To hem I have so great affection, 
As I said erst, whan comen is the May, 
That is me bedde there daweth me no dav 



That I nam up and walking in the mede; 
To sene this flour agenst the sunne sprede, 
Whan it upriseth early by the morow, 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorow, 
So glad am I whan that I have the presence 
Of it, to done it all reverence ; 
And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, 
And ever shall, till that mine herte die: 
All swere I not, of this I will not lie. 

CHAUCER. 



P\ 



UNA AND THE LION, 



OUGHT is there under heaven's wide 
hallowness 
That moves more dear compassion of 
mind, 
Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretched- 
ness 
Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks 

unkind. 
I, whether lately through her brightness blind, 
Or through allegiance and fast fealty, 
Which I do owe unto all womankind, 
Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, 
When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 

And now it is empassioned so deep, 
For fairest Una's sake, of whom I sing, 
That my frail eyes these lines with tears do 

steep, 
To think how she through guileful handeling, 
Though true as touch, though daughter of a 

king, 
Though fair as ever living wight was fair, 
Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, 
Is from her Knight divorced in despair, 
And her due loves derived to that vile Witch's 

share. 

Yet she, most faithful Lady all this while, 

Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid, 

Far from all people's press, as in exile, 

In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd 

To seek her Knight ; who, subtilly betray'd 

Through that late vision which th' enchanter 

wrought, 
Had her abandon'd ; she, of nought affray'd, 
Through woods and wasteness wide him daily 

sought ; 
Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



275 



And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight 
From her fair head her fillet she undight, 
And laid her stole aside ; her angel's face, 
As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, 
And made a sunshine in the shady place : 
Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. 

It fortuned out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
Hunting full greedy after savage blood : 
Soon as the royal Virgin he did spy, 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
To have at once devour'd her tender corse ; 
But to the prey whenas he drew more nigh, 
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 
And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious 
force. 

Instead thereof, he kiss'd her weary feet, 
And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue, 
As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
O, how can beauty master the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission, 
Still dreading death, when she had marked 

long, 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion ; 
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 

"The lion, lord of every beast in field," 
Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate, 
And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, 
Forgetful of the hungry rage which late 
Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate :— 
But he, my lion, and my noble lord, 
How does he find in cruel heart to hate 
Her that him loved, and ever most adored 
As the god of my life? why hath he me ab- 
horr'd?" 

Redounding tears did choke th' end of her 

plaint, 
Which softly echo'd from the neighbor wood ; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calm'd, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, in close heart shutting up her pain, 
Arose the Virgin born of heavenly brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got again, 
To seek her stray'd Champion if she might attain. 

The lion would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong guard 




Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard : 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and 

ward ; 
And, when she waked, he waited diligent, 
With humble service to her will prepared : 
From her fair eyes he took commandment, 
And ever by her looks conceived her intent, 

EDMUND SPENCER. 



PARADISE LOST. 

thou that, with surpassing glory crown'd, 
Look'st from thy sole dominion, like 
the god 
Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars 
Hide their diminished heads ; to thee 1 call, 
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 

Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
That bring to my remembrance from what state 

1 fell ; how glorious once above thy sphere ; 
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, 
Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless 

King: 
Ah, wherefore ? He deserv'd no such return 
From me, whom he created what I was 
In that bright eminence, and with his good 
Upbraided none : nor was his service hard. 
What could be less than to afford him praise, 
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks? 
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me, 
And wrought but malice: lifted up so high, 
I disdained subjection; thought one step higher 
Would set me high'st, and in a moment quit 
The debt immense of endless gratitude, 
So burdensome still paying, still to owe. 
Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd, 
And understood not, that a grateful mind 
By owing, owes not, but still pays: at once 
Indebted, and discharged; what burden then? 
Oh, had his pow'rful destiny ordain'd 
Me some inferior angel, I had stood 
Then happy ; no unbounded hope had rais'd 
Ambition. Yet why not? some other pow'r 
As great might have aspir'd, and me, though 

mean, 
Drawn to his part. But other pow'rs as great 
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within, 
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 
Hadst thou the same free-will, and pow'r to 

stand? 



276 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Thou hadst: whom hast thou, then, or what 

t'accuse, 
But heaven's free love dealt equally to all? 
Be then his love accurs'd ! since love or hate, 
To me alike it deals eternal woe. 
Nay, curs'd be thou; since against his, thy will 
Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 
Me miserable! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? 
Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; 
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, 
To which the hell I suffer, seems a heav'n — 
Oh, then, at last, relent. Is there no place 
Left for repentance? None for pardon left? 
None left, but by submission ; and that word 
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd 
With other promises, and other vaunts 
Than to submit; boasting I could subdue 
Th' Omnipotent. Ah, me! they little know 
How dearly I abide that boast so vain ; 
Under what torments inwardly I groan, 
While they adore me on the throne of hell, 
With diadem and scepter high advanc'd, 
The lower still I fall, only supreme 
In misery; such joy ambition finds. 
But say I could repent, and could obtain, 
By act of grace, my former state ; how soon 
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon 

unsay 
What feign'd submission swore! Ease would 

recant 
Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 
For never can true reconcilement grow 
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so 

deep: 
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse, 
And heavier fall : so should I purchase dear 
Short intermission bought with double smart. 
This knows my Punisher, therefore as far 
From granting he, as I from begging peace: 
All hope excluded thus, behold instead 
Of us outcast, exil'd, his new delight, 
Mankind created, and for them this world. 
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell fear; 
Farewell, remorse; all good to me is lost; 
Evil, be thou my good ; by thee at least 
Divided empire with heaven's King I hold ; 
By thee, and more than half, perhaps, shall reign, 
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know. 

MILTON. 



SONNETS. 

HEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's 
eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate; 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possest, 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising ; 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's 

gate: 
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth 

brings, 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent though 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, 
And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I now pay as if not paid before ; 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

FULL many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to West with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 
With all-triumphant splendor on my brow; 
But, out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ; 
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me 

now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's Sun 

staineth. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



277 



LET me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments: love is not love, 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove : 

O, no! it is an ever- fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height 

be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

SHAKESPEARE. 



'djh 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 



WAS at the royal feast for Persia won 

By Philip's warlike son— 
Aloft, in awful state, 
The god-like hero sat 
On his imperial throne. 
His valiant peers were plac'd around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtle 
bound: 
So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. — 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, plac'd on high 
Amid the tuneful choir, 

With flying fingers touched the lyre; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky 

And heavenly joys inspire — 

The list'ning crowd admire the lofty 
sound: 
A present deity ! they shout around ! 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs re- 
bound — 

With ravish'd ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet 
musician sung, 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young ! 
The jolly God in triumph comes ! 

Sound the trumpets ! beat the drums ! 
Flush'd with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath ! he comes ! 
he comes ! 
Bacchus ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
Bacchus' blesssings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure ; 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew 

vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice 
he slew the slain ! 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he heav'n and earth de- 
fied— 
Chang'd his hand and check'd his 
pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius, great and good, 
By too severe a fate, 
Fall'n! fall'n! fall'n ! fall'n! 
Fall'n from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ! 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes ! 

With downcast look the joyless victor 

sat, 
Revolving, in his alter'd soul, 

The various turns of fate below ; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow ! 
The mighty master smil'd, to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 



278 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Ho^g: but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying, 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying! 

The many rend the skies with loud 

applause: 
So love was crown'd ; but music won the 
cause. 
Now, strike the golden lyre again ! 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder! 
Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound 
Has rais'd up his head, 
As awak'd from the dead ; 
And amaz'd he stares around. 

Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries — 
See the Juries arise! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their 
eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 
were slain, 
And, unburied, remain 
Inglorious on the plain ! 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew ! 
Behold ! how they toss their torches on 
high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile 
gods ! 
The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal 
to destroy ; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey ; 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy ! 

Thus, long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And s ;unding lyre, 



Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle 
soft desire. 
At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame. 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred 
store, 
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother wit, and arts un- 
known before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down ! 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

FATE. 

EAV'N from all creatures hides the book 
of Fate, 

All but the page prescrib'd, their present state; 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits 

know, 
Or who could suffer being here below? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood- 
O blindness to the future! kindly given, 
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n: 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly then, with trembling pinions 
soar; 
Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 
Man never is, but always to be blest : 
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind ; 
His soul proud Science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heav'n : 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 
Some happier island in the wat'ry v/aste, 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



279 



Where slaves once more their native land behold, 

No fiends torment, nor Christians thirst for gold. 

To be content his natural desire, 

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire: 

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 

His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such. 
Say, here he gives too little — there too much : 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 
Rejudge his justice, be the god of GOD. 
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. 

POPE. 

CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 

'N what foundation stands the warrior's 

pride ! 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ! 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear extends his wide domain, 
Unconauered lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field, 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 

vain: 
" ThinK nothing gained," he cries, "till naught 

remain ; 
On Moscow's wall till Gothic standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the Polar sky." 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait. 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 
He comes— nor want nor cold his course delay ;— 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 




The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale! 

SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



% 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 



HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness — and to me. 
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such, as wandering near her secret bow'r, 

Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 
Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 
heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twitt ring from her straw-built 
shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly L ed. 
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke. 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 



28o 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, 
Await, alike, the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead — but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise: 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
sway'd, 
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless 
breast 

The little tyrant of hk> fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's 
blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
fined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

T. e struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide : 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame ; 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 



Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

(Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray,) 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unlettered 
muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say — 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 
Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
Or craz'd with care, or crossed in hopeless 
love. 
"One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
Slow through the churchyard path we saw 
him borne - 
Approach, and read ( for thou canst read) the lay, 
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 




GOSSIP AT THE WELL 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



283 




THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to mis'ry all he had— a tear ; 
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; 

(There they, alike, in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

THOMAS GRAY. 



LOCHINVAR. 

YOUNG LOCHINVAR is come out of 
the West,— 

Through all the wide Border his steed was the 
best: 

And save his good broadsword he weapons had 
none, — 

He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 

There never was knight like the young Loch- 
invar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for 

stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was 

none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 
'Mongbride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, 

and all. 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword 
(For the poor craven bridegrooom said never a 

word), 
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loch- 
invar?" 



I long wooed your daughter,— my suit you 

denied; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 

tide, 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Loch- 
invar." 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the 

cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 

sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- 
invar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did 

fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 

and plume 
And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'Twere better, 

by far, 
To have matched our fair cousin with young 

Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall door, and the charger 

stood near, 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur, 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 

young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Ne- 
therby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, 

and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- 
invar? 

SCOTT. 



284 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

E banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery. 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last farweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as life and light 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

BURNS. 

GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN. 



(Wh\ 



EN give me back that time of pleasures, 
While yet in joyous growth I sang, — 
When, like a fount, the crowding measures 
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang ! 
Then bright mist veiled the world before me, 
In opening buds a marvel woke, 
As I the thousand blossoms broke 
Which every valley richly bore me? 
I nothing had, and yet enough for youth — 
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 
Give unrestrained the old emotion, 
The bliss that touched the verge of pain, 

The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion, — 
O, give me back my youth again ! 

GOETHE. 



THE GLOVE. 

EFORE his lion-garden gate, 
The wild-beast combat to await, 
King Francis sate : 
Around him were his nobles placed, 
The balcony above was graced 
By ladies of the court, in gorgeous state : 
And as with his finger a sign he made. 
The iron grating was open laid, 
And with stately step and mien 
A lion to enter was seen. 
With fearful look 
His mane he shook, 
And yawning wide, 
Staring around him on every side ; 
And stretched his giant limbs of strength, 
And laid himself down at his fearful length 

And the king a second signal made,— 

And instant was opened wide 

A second gate, on the other side, 

From which, with fiery bound, 

A tiger sprung. 

Wildly the wild one yelled, 

When the lion he beheld ; 

And bristling at the look, 

With his tail his sides he strook, 

And rolled his rabid tongue. 

And, with glittering eye, 

Crept round the lion slow and shy 

Then, horribly howling, 

And grimly growling, 

Down by his side himself he laid. 

And the king another signal made; 

The open grating vomited then 

Two leopards forth from their dreadful den, — 

They rush on the tiger, with signs of rage. 

Eager the deadly fight to wage, 

Who, fierce, with paws uplifted stood. 

And the lion sprang up with an awful roar, 

Then were still the fearful four : 

And the monsters on the ground 

Crouched in a circle round, 

Greedy to taste of blood. 

Now, from the balcony above, 
A snowy hand let fall a glove : 
Midway between the beasts of prey, 
Lion and tiger,— there it lay, 
The winsome lady's glove! 






GEMS OF POETRY. 



285 



And the Lady Kunigund, in bantering mood, 
Spoke to Knight Delorges, who by her siood;- 
M If the flame which but now to me you swore 
Burns as strong as it did before, 
Go pick up my glove, Sir Knight." 
And he, with action quick as sight, 
In the horrible place did stand : 
And with dauntless mien, 
From the beasts between 
Took up the glove, with fearless hand ; 
And as ladies and nobles the bold deed saw, 
Their breath they held, through fear and awe. 
The glove he brings back, composed and light. 
His praise was announced by voice and look, 
And Kunigund rose to receive the knight 
With a smile that promised the deed to requite 
But straight in her face he flung the glove,— 
" 1 neither desire your thanks nor love ;" 
And from that same hour the lady forsook. 

SCHILLER. 



THE SKYLARK. 

|IRD of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o'er mooreland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest be thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay and loud 
Far in the downy cloud, 

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing, 
Where art thou journeying? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
O'er moor and mountain green, 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms, 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place— 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

HOGG. 



VISIONS OF THE HEART. 

HE was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament : 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty ; 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sw eet ; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food ; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and 
smiles. 

And now I see with eyes serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

WORDSWORTH. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 



df« 



HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal* 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean— roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin— his control 
Stops with the shore •— upon the watery plain 



286 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and un- 
known. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him,— thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful 

spray, 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 

And dashest him again to earth:— there let him lay. 
The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, — 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 

they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts:— not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow 
S ich as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convuls'd— in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
lime— 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 



And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sport was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers— they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. 
BYRON, (Cbilde Harold.) 

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN 
SKIES. 



<fi 



HE bird, let loose in eastern skies, 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God ! from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to thee ! 
No sin to cloud, — no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs ; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom on her wings ! 

MOORE. 

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 



N LINDEN, when the sun was low, 

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden showed another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery! 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade; 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 








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SUNNY ITALY 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



289 



But redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens: On, ye brave! 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Pv 



HYMN TO MOUNT BLANC. 



AST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course? So long he seems 
to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and the Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge! But, when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity. 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in 

prayer, 

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
Till the dilating soul— enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing— there, 
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest; not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
15 



Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 
vale! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ; 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald ; wake, O, wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your 

joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
And who commanded, (and the silence came,) 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 
brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 

voice! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 

sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost ; 
Ye wild goats sporting around the eagle's nest; 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ; 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; 
Ye signs and wonders of the element- 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing 
peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 



290 



GEMS OF POETRY, 



Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — rise, O, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

COLERIDGE. 



PV 



TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 

pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had 

drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk ; 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness— 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of Summer in full throated ease. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 

And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful Death ; 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath : 
Now more than ever it seems rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 

In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in 

vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 
No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 

home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 

The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole self. 
Adieu ! The fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu, adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 

In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music : — do I wake, or sleep? 

JOHN KEATS. 

TO A SKYLARK. 

AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! 
Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
ki profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire, 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever 

singest. 
In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
The pale, purple even .„■ 

Melts around thy flight, 
Like a star of heaven. - - ~ - ' • . .- 

In the broad daylight > ^ 

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.' 
Keen as are thy arrows, 

Of that silver sphere, « 

Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 



GEMS OF POETRY, 



291 



Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
stream ? 

We look before and after 

And pine for what is not ; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear ; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
1 know not how thy joy we ever should come 
near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening 
now. 

SHELLEY. 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 



P\ 



OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 



Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 

dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread 

o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring ; 
And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

CHARLES WOLFE. 

SLAVERY. 

H ! for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 
My soul is sick with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart — 
It does not feel for man. That natural bond 
Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty— of a skin 
Not color'd like his own ; and, having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd 
Make enemies of nations who had else, 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother and destroys ; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him. and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 




292 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man ? And what man seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head, to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me^ to fan me while 1 sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation, prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad? 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall ! 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous ot the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel ner mercy too. 

COWPER, {The Task.) 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 




1TH fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the "' Song of the Shirt !" 

"Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof ! 

And work — work — work, 
Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
It's O ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work 
Till the brain begins to swim ! 

Work — work — work 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 



"O, men, with sisters dear! 

O, men, with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives 1 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt. 

" But why do I talk of death ? 
That phantom of grisly bone, 

I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own- 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O, God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

II Work — work — work ! 
From weary chime to chime! 

Work — work — work, 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

11 Work — work — work, 
In the dull December light, 

And work — work — work, 
When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

" O ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 

With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet, 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feei, 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 



/ 




w 



E 

H 

O 

D 
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GEMS OF POETRY 



295 



" O ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread I" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich !— 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! 

HOOD. 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had compan- 
ions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
days: 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

1 have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 

cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her : 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces, 

Ghost-like I paced 'round the haunts of my child- 
hood: 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking + ^find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wertnot thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 

How some they have died, and some they have 

left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

LAMB. 




ODE ON THE PASSIONS. 

HEN Music, heavenly maid ! wasyoung, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting, 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; 
And as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive pow'r. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords, bewilder'd laid — 
And back recoil'd, he knew not why 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire ; 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair- 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air: 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure? 
Still it whisper d promis'd pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She call'd on Echo still through all the song; 
And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; 
And Hope enchant'd smil'd, and wav'd her 
golden hair : 

And longer had she sung— but with a frown 
Revenge impatient rose : 

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder 
down, 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; 



2Q6 



GEMS OF POETRY 



And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause 
between, 
Dejected pity at his side 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were 
fix'd ; 
Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of diff'ring themes the veering song was. 
mix'd, 
And now it courted love, now raving call'd on 
Hate. 

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd' 

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, 

And from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive 
soul ; 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled mea- 
sure stole : 

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond 
delay, 

Round a holy calm diffusing. 

Love of peace and lonely musing, 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, 

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. 

The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad 

known; 
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste- 
eyed queen, 
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, 
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen 
spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 

He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 



Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the 
best. 
They would have thought, who heard the 
strain, 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 
And he, amidst his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, 
Why, Goddess! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r, 
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r; 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd ! 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to virtue, fancy, art? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime 
Thy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy recording Sister's page — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail. 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age; 
Even all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
O bid our vain endeavors cease, 
Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
Return in all thy simple state, 
Confirm the tale her sons relate ! 

COLLINS. 

ADIEU. 

ET time and chance combine, combine, 
Let time and chance combine : 
The fairest love from heaven above, 
That love of yours was mine, 

My dear. 
That love of yours was mine. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone, 

The past is fled and gone ; 
If naught but pain to me remain, 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



2 97 



I'll fare in memory on, 

My dear, 
I'll fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 
The saddest tears must fall ; 

In weal or woe, in this world below, 
I love you ever and all, 

My dear, 
I love you ever and all. 

A long road full of pain, of pain, 

A long road full of pain, 
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, — 

We ne'er can meet again, 
My dear, 

We ne'er can meet again. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow, 
Hard fate will not allow ; 
We blessed were as the angels are, — 
Adieu forever now, 

My dear, 
Adieu forever now. 

CARLYLE. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 

HITHER, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last 
steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly limn'd upon the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann'd, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 





And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. 

Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 

flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

BRYANT. 

THE RAVEN, 

NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I 
ponder'd, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- 
gotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 

came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 

chamber-door, — 
" 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my 
chamber-door,— 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak 

December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 

upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wish'd the morrow ; — vainly I sought 

to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for 

the lost Lenore,— 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore, — 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each pur- 
ple curtain 

Thrill'd me, — fill'd me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I 
stood repeating 

"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my 
chamber-door; 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 
chamber-door : 
This it is and nothing more." 



298 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating 
then no longer, 

4 * Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgive- 
ness I implore ; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 
came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 
chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you,"— here I 
open'd wide the door,— 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood 

there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared 

to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 

gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whis- 

per'd word, " Lenore !" 
This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back 

the word, " Lenore !" 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul with- 
in me burning, 

Soon again I heard' a tapping something louder 
than before. 

" Surely," said I, -" surely that is something at 
my window-lattice ; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mys- 
tery explore, — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- 
tery explore. 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more. 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many 

a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly 

days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 

stopp'd or stay'd he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my 

chamber-door, — 
Perch'd upon a bu«t of Pallas, just above my 

chamber-door, — 

Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy 
into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- 
nance it wore, 



" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," 

I said, " art sure no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering 

from the nightly shore, — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's 

Plutonian shore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Never more.' 1 

Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little rele- 
vancy — bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living 
human being 

Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his 
chamber-door, — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber-door, — 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, 

spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he 

did outpour. 
Nothing further then he utter'd ;— not a feather 

then he flutter' d ;— 
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " Other 

friends have flown before— 
On the monow he will leave me, as my hopes 

have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Never more." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only 
stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom un- 
merciful disaster 

Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs 
one burden bore, — 

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy 
burden bore, 

Of ' Never— never more.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul 

into smiling, 
Straight 1 wheel'd a cushioned seat in front of 

bird and bust and door ; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself 

to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous 

bird of yore,— 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



299 



What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and j 
ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking, " Never more." 

This 1 sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable 
expressing 

To the towl whose fiery eyes now burned into 
mv bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at 
ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- 
light gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- 
light gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, never more ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed 

from an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on 

the tufted floor, 
" Wretch ! " I cried, " thy god hath lent thee— 

by these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite— respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore! 
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget 

this lost Lenore !" 

Quoth the Raven, " Never more! " 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil !— prophet 

still, if bird or devil ! — 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd 

thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land 

enchanted - 
On this home by horror haunted,— tell me truly, 

I implore, — 
Is there— is there balm in Gilead?— tell me-tell 

me, I implore! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Never more." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! "—prophet 
still, if bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us— by that 
God we both adore, 

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the 
distant Aiden 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels 
name Lenore, — 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the an- 
gels name Lenore! " 

Quoth the Raven, "Never more." 



" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 

fiend! " I shrieked, upstarting— 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's 

Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy 

soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! - quit the bust 

above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy 

form from off my door ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Never more." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still 

is sitting, 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my 

chamber-door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 

that is dreaming. 
And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws 

his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies 

floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — never more! 

POE. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist. 



dp 



ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest " 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife! 



300 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act— act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time. 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

LONGFELLOW. 



DAY IS DYING. 

AY is dying ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 
Requiem chanting to the Day — 
Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky, 

Earth and heaven blending ; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 

Up to cloud-land lifting ; 
Slow between them drifts the swan, 

'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open, like a flower 

Inly deeply flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying! Float O swan, 

Down the ruby river; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 

GEORGE ELIOT. 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 

the encircling 



[G^EAD, Kindly Light, amid 
'^" — gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home ; 

Lead Thou me on ! 
Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on ; 
I loved to see and choose my path ; but now 

Lead Thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years I 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile 1 

NEWMAN. 



df> 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 



E blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven : 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 
And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service meetly worn : 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face 

Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



301 



It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is space begun ; 
So high that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar'she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not his steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair?) 

" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
"Havel not prayed in Heaven?— on earth, 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall 1 feel afraid? 



44 When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

44 We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud- 

44 We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so, 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause, 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee?) 

44 We two," she said, 44 will seek the groves 

Where the Lady Mary is, 
With her five handmaidens whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

44 He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 

When will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love 

Not once abashed or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 



302 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



11 Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 

To Him round whom all souls 
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 

Bowed with their aureoles : 
And angels meeting us shall sing 

To their citherns and citoles. 

11 There will I ask of Christ the Lord 

Thus much for him and me : — 
Only to live as once on earth 

With Love,— only to be, 
As then awhile, forever now 

Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 

Was vague in distant spheres 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers, 
And laid her face between her hands, 

And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

ROSSETTI. 



fV 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 



T midnight, in his guarded tent, 
The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power: 
In dreams through camp and court he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king, — 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing 

As Eden's garden bird. 

An hour passed on, — the Turk awoke; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke to hear his sentries shriek, — 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !' 
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 



And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from a mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band :— 
" Strike— till the last armed foe expires ! 
Strike— for your altars and your fires ! 
Strike for the green graves of your sires, 

God, and your native land !" 



They fought, like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered ; but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother's when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in Consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,- 
And thou art terrible : the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear, 

Of agony, are thine. 



But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee : there is no prouder grave, 

Even in thine own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh, 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die ! 

HALLECK. 



X 

> 

z 




GEMS OF POETRY. 



305 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 



y$. M 



Freedom, from her mountain 
height, 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white, 
With streakings of the morning light. 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear' st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumpings loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 
When strive the warriors of the storm, 

And rolls the thunder-drum of Heaven, — 
Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free ; 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke ; 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbinger of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high, 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, — 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, — 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn ; 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud, 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall fall beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean's wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave 
When Death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 



And frighted waves rush wildly back, 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to Heaven and thee ; 
And smile to see thy splendors fly, 
In triumph, o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel's hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in Heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Feeedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us 1 

DRAKE. 

GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD. 

.OOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going 
home: 

Thou'rt not my friend and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 

A river-ark on the ocean's brine, 
Long I've been toss'd like the driven foam ; 
But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; 

To Grandeur, with his wise grimace ; 

To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 

To Supple Office, low and high ; 

To crowded halls, to court and street ; 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 

To those who go, and those who come ; 

Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home. 

I am going to my own hearth-stone, 
Bosom'd in yon green hills alone — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd ; 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God 

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines, 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, 
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
For what are they all in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may meet! 

EMERSON. 



3o6 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



# 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 



HE play is done,— the curtain drops, 
Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 
A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time ; 
On life's wide scene you too have parts 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good night ! with honest, gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good night ! I'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age ; 
I'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men, 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys, 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learn at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say how fate may change and shift, 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift: 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 



Come wealth or want, come good or il 
Let young and old accept their part, 

And bow before the Awful Will, 
And bear it with an honest heart. 



Who misses, or who wins the prize? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays,) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days, 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then ; 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentlemen ! 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health and love and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide ; 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still : 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

THACKERAY. 



PY 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 



OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 

whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign Liege, King Henry of 

Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and 

the dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, 

O pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city 

of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
ing daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in 

our joy, 
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 

thy walls annoy. 
Hnrrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 

chance of war! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of 

Navarre! 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the 

dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in 

long array ; 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



3-7 



With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 

peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry and Egmont's 

Flemish spears ! 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 

of our land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 

in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 

empurpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with 

his blood; 
And we cried unto the living. God, who rules the 

fate of war, 
To fight for His own holy Name, and Henry of 

Navarre. 

The King has come to marshal us, in all his ar- 
mor drest, 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest ! 
He looked upon his People, and a tear was in his 

eye; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 

stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from 

wing to wing, 
Down all our line, in deafening shout, " God 

save our lord the King !" 
"And if my standard-bearer fall,— as fall full 

well he may, 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 

fray, — 
Press where you see my white plume shine, amid 

the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of 

Navarre." 

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the 
mingled din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
roaring culverin ! 

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint An- 
dre's plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
Almayne. 

Mow, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 
of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them 
with the lance ! 



A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 

spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind 

the snow-white crest. 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, 

like a guiding star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 

Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! May- 
enne hath turned his rein, 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — the F.lemish 
Count is slain ; 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds, before 
a Biscay gale ; 

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and 
flags, and cloven mail, 

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along 
our van 

"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed 
from man to man ; 

But outspake gentle Henry, then, — " No French- 
man is my foe ; 

Down, down with every foreigner ! but let your 
brethren go." 

O ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship 
or in war, 

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier 
of Navarre! 

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lu- 
cerne ! 

Weep, weep and rend your hair for those who 
never shall return ! 

Ho! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pis- 
toles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 
poor spearmen's souls. 

Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your 
arms be bright ! 

Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and 
ward to-night ! 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God 
hath raised the slave, 

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor 
of the brave. 

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 
glories are ! 

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of 
Navarre. 

MACAULAY. 



3o8 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



^^ THE THREE FISHERS. 

(tf) HREE fishers went sailing out into the 
■ west, 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved him the 
best, 
And the children stood watching them out of 
the town : 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went 

down ; 
They looked at the squall, and they looked at 

the shower, 
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and 

brown. 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing their 
hands 
For those who will never come home to the 
town : 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, 
And good-bye to the bar and it's moaning. 

KINGSLEY. 

THE BROOKSIDE. 

WANDERED by the brookside, 

I wandered by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow, — 

The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound 1 heard. 

1 sat beneath the elm-tree, 

1 watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

1 did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word- 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



He came not— no, he came not — 

The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat one by one 

Each on his golden throne: 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind: 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer— nearer — 

We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound I heard. 

MILNES. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 



df 



HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadow'd main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wreck'd is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chamber'd cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies reveal 'd — 
Its Iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the 
old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 
thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 



> 

o 

H 
X 

> 




GEMS OF POETRY. 



3ii 



While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought 1 hear a voice 
tbM sings :— 

Ruii'i thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unrest- 
ing sea ! 



HOLMES. 



EVELYN HOPE. 



(EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! 
Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut,— no light may pass 
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,— 
It was not her time to love; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir, — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What ! your soul was pure and true : 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals,— naught beside? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 
16 



But the time will come,— at last it will, — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what is meant, I shall say, 
In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 

That body and soul are so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red,— 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing,— one, — in my soul's lull scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me, 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while : 

My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
young gold. 
So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand, 
BROWNING. 



f®. 



THREE KISSES. 



IRST time he kissed me, he but only 
kissed 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
And ever since it grew more clean and white,— 
Slow to world-greetings— quick with its " O. 

list," 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in 

height 
The first, and sought the forehead, and half 

missed, 
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 
That was the chrism of love, which love's own 

crown, 
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 
I have been proud and said, " My love, my 

own." 

MRS. BROWNING. 



112 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



(9) HE sa 
wi 



FAREWELL. 



same year calls, and one goes hence 
ith another, 

And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet 
song's sake ; 
The same year beckons, and younger with elder 
brother, 
fakes mutely the cup from his hand that we 
all must take: 
They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be 
come,— 
And the birds are loud, but the lips that out- 
sung them are dumb. 
Time takes them home that we loved, — fair 
names and famous,— 
To the soft, long sleep, to the broad, sweet 
bosom of death : 
But the tlower of their souls he shall take not 
away to shame us, 
Nor the lips lack song forever, that now lack 
breath ; 
For with us shall the music and perfume that die 

not dwell, 
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and 
we, — farewell ! 

SWINBURNE. 

LOCKSLEY HALL. 

OMRADES, leave me here a little, while 
as yet 'tis early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 
upon the bugle horn. 

Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the 

curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 

Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into eater- 
acts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I 

went to rest, 
hid I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 

West. 

a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the 
mellow shade, 
like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a sil- 
ver braid. 



Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a 
youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the long re- 
sult of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 

reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise 

that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 

could see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 

robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur- 
nished dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns 
to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 
be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute ob- 
servance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak 

the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets 

to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 
and a light, 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the north- 
ern night. 

And she turn'd— her bosom shaken with a sud- 
den storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they 

should do me wrong " ; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ?" weeping, 

11 1 have loved thee long." 



Many an evening by the waters did we watch 

the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching 

of the lips. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



3i3 



O my cousin, shallow-hearted I O my Amy, 

mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, 

barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 
songs have sung, 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known 

me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 

heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be ; thou shalt lower to his level day 
by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
pathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated 

with a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight 

to drag thee down. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last 

embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 

living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
Nature's rule! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten' d fore- 
head of the fool ! 

Where is comfort? in division of the records of 

the mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 

knew her, kind ! 

• ...., 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore ! 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for 

evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth 

the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 



Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore 

should I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting 

upon days like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the mar- 
kets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy : what is that which 
I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
man's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds 
are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness? 1 will turn that ear- 
lier page. 

Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou won- 
Mother-Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 

the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult 

of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the com- 
ing years would yield, 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 
father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and 

nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a 

dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 

him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 

throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reap- 
ing something new: 

That which they have done but earnest of the 
things that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonders 

that would be ; 



3U 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Saw the heavens filled with commerce, argosies 

of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 

rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 

central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' 
the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the 

battle flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 

world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a 

fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- 
versal law. 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creep- 
ing nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 
slowly dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing pur- 
pose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the 
process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like 

a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I lin- 
ger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the world is 
more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 

bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the still- 
ness of his rest. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 
shallower brain : 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

matched with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 

unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. 

Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 

began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father 
evil-starr'd ; — 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish un- 
cle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander 

far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of 

the day. 

Larger constellations burning, yellow moons and 

happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings 

the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree— 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than 

in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 



Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my 

words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 

with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were 

sun or clime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 




c 



H 






GEMS OF POETRY. 



3»7 



I that rather held it better men should perish one 
by one, 

Than that earth should'stand at gaze like Josh- 
ua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distant beacons. Forward, for- 
ward let us range. 

Let the great world spin for ever down the ring- 
ing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
younger day: 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Ca- 
thay. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me 

the roof-tree fall. 

Gomes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail or 

fire or snow ! 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, 

and I go. 

TENNYSON. 



W\ 



MAUD MULLER. 



AUD MULLER, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing fill'd her breast, — 

A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane, 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple trees, to greet the maid ; 

And ask'd a draught from the spring that flow'd 
Through the meadow across the road. 



She stoop'd where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And fill'd for him her small tin cup, 

And blush'd as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaff' d." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees, 

Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listen'd, while a pleased surprise 
Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd : "Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge look'd back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 



3 i8 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he humm'd in court an old love-tune. 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow 
He watch'd a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Look'd out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He long'd for the wayside well instead, 

And clos'd his eyes on his garnish'd rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret pain : 
"Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when 1 rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unleam'd and poor, 
And many children play'd round her door. 

But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretch'd away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd, 
The tallow candle an astral burn'd, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden; alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 



God pity them both, and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

WHITTIER. 

JUNE. 

ARTH gets its price for what Earth gives 
us; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in ; 
The priest has his fee who comes and shrieves us; 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking ; 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking ; 

No price is set on the lavish summer, 

June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 

The soul partakes the season's youth, 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

LOWELL. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



319 




THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

ITH deep affection 

And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 

In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 

Where'er 1 wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 

"Old Adrian's Mole" in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 

Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame. 

But the sounds are sweeter 

Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly, — 
O, the bells of Shandon 

Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 

While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 

Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 

I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me,— 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

FATHER PROUT. 



<fp 



LONGING FOR HOME. 



HERE once was a nest in a hollow, 

Down in the mosses and knot-grass 
press'd, 
Soft and warm and full to the brim ; 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim ; 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long; — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own — 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them ; but when they v ere 
grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day ; 

And— I wish I was going too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where 1 stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope has failed? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be ; 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah, me ! 

INGELOW. 

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 



m 



Y minde to me a kingdome is; 
Such perfect joy therein I finde 
As far exceeds all earthly blisse 

That God or nature hath assignde. 
Though much I want, that most would have, 
Yet still mv mind forbids to crave. 



320 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Content I live, this is my stay ; 

I seek no more than may suffice ; 
J presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 

Look what I lack my mind supplies. 
Loe! thus 1 triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfets oft, 

And hastie clymbers soonest fall : 

I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all : 

These get with toile, and keep with feare: 

Such cares my mind could never beare. 

No princely pompe, nor welthie store. 

No force to winne the victorie, 
No wylie wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to winne a lover's eye; 
To none of these I yeeld as thrall. 
For why, my mind despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave, 
I little have, yet seek no more ; 

They are but poore, though much they have ; 
And I am rich with little store ; 

They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 

They lacke, I lend ; they pine, 1 live. 

I laugh not at another's losse, 

I grudge not at another's gaine ; 

No worldly wave my mind can tosse, 
J brooke that is another's bane. 

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend, 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly blisse ; 

I weigh not Croesus' welth a straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is ; 

I fear not fortune's fatall law. 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beautie bright or force of love. 

I wish but what 1 have at will ; 

I wander not to seek for more ; 
1 like the plaine, 1 climb no hill; 

In greatest stormes 1 sitte on shore, 
And laugh at them that toile in vaine 
To get what must be lost againe. 

J kisse not where I wish to kill ; 

I feigne not love where most I hate ; 
I breake no sleep to winne my will ; 

1 wayte not at the mighties gate; 
Sc -ne no poore, 1 feare no rich, 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 



The court, ne cart, I like, ne loathe ; 

Extreames are counted worst of all : 
The golden meane betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall : 
This is my choyce, tor why, I finde 
No wealth is like a quiet minde. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease, 

My conscience clere my chiefe defence: 

I never seek by brybes to please, 
Nor by desert to give offence ; 

Thus do I live, thus will I die; 

Would all did so as well as 1. 

MARLOW. 

WHAT CONSTITUTES. A STATE. 




HAT constitutes a state? 

Not high-rais'd battlement and 
labored mound, 
Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets 
crown'd : 
Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, 

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies rider 
Not starr'd and spangled courts, 
Where low-bred baseness wafts perfume to 
pride : 
No — men, high-minded men, 

With powers as far above dull brutes endu'd, 
In forest, brake, or den, 

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude: 
Men, who their duties know. 
But know their rights : and, knowing, dare 
maintain, 
Prevent the long-aim'd blow, 
And crush the tyrant, while they rend the 
chain. 
These constitute a state : 

And sovereign law, that state's collected will, 
O'er thrones and globes elate, 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

JONES. 

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. 



HEN love with unconfined wings 
Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter'd to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 




GEMS OF POETRY. 



3?.i 



When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty, 

When, linnet-like, confined, I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an heritage : 
If 1 have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY. 

IT must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond 
desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward norror, 
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 
Rack on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us, 
'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity !— thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we 

pass! 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds and darkness, rest upon it. 
Here will 1 hold. If there's a Power above us, — 
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, — He must delight in 

virtue : 
And that which He delights in must be happy. 
But when? or where? This world was made for 

Csesar. 



I'm weary of conjectures,— this must end 'em. 

Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to my end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

ADDISON. 



(|Fhi 



AMERICA. 

E Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 
Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun, 

And virgin earth, such scenes ensue, 
The force of art by nature seems outdone, 

And fancied beauties by the true : 
In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 

Where Nature guides, and Virtue rules, — 
Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense 

The pedantry of courts and schools ; 
There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay, — 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, — 

By future poets shall be sung. 
Westward the course of empire takes it way, 

The first four acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

BERKELEY. 



W\ 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



ID pleasures and palaces though we 
may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with 
elsewhere. 
Home ! home ! sweet home ! 
There's no place like home ! 



322 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 
Oh, give me my lowly thatch 'd cottage again; 
The birds singing gayly that came at my call : 
Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer 
than all. 

Home! sweet! sweet home ! 
There's no place like home! 

J. H. PAYNE. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

OW dear to this heart are the scenes of 
my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild 
wood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 
stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the 
well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-cover'd vessel 1 hail as a treasure; 
For often, at noon, when return'd from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent 1 seized it, with hands that were 
glowing! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive 

it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 

leave it, 

Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the 
well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in the 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 




well. 



S. WOODWORTH. 



H, say, can you see, by the dawn's early 
light, 
What so proudly we hail'd, at the twilight's last 

gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through 

the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly 

streaming ; 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting 

in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was 

still there: 
Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of 

the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first 

beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream : 
'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner; oh, long may it 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion, 
A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' 

pollution ; 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the 

grave ; 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

Oh, thus be it ever, when freedom shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's deso- 
lation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved 

us a nation ! 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust ;" 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

F. S. KEY. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



323 



HAIL, COLUMBIA. 

AIL, Columbia! happy land! 
Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! 
Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
And when the storm of war was gone, 
t-njoy'd the peace your valor won. 
Let independence be our boast, 
Ever mindful what it cost ; 
Ever grateful for the prize ; 
Let its altar reach the skies. 
Firm -united— let us be, 
Rallying round our liberty ; 
As a band of brothers join'd, 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more ; 

Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 
Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 

Invade the shrine where sacred lies 

Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
While offering peace sincere and just, 
In Heaven we place a manly trust, 
That truth and justice will prevail, 
And every scheme of bondage fail, 
Firm— united, etc. 

Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 

Let WASHINGTON'S great name 
Ring through the world with loud applause, 
Ring through the world with loud applause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 

Listen with a joyful ear. 
With equal skill and godlike power, 
He governs in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war ; or guides with ease, 
The happier times of honest peace. 
Firm — united, etc. 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Once more to serve his country stands, — 
The rock on which the storm will beat, 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, arm'd in virtue firm and true, 
His hopes are fix'd on Heaven and you. 
When Hope was sinking in dismay, 
And glooms obscured Columbia's day 
His steady mind, from changes free, 
Resolved on death or liberty. 
Firm — united, etc. 

JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 



OLD GRIMES. 

LD GRIMES is dead— that good old 
man — 
We ne'er shall see him more :— 
He used to wear a long, black coat 
All button'd down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true ;— 
His hair was some inclined to gray, 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burn'd ;— 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turn'd. 

Kind words he ever had for all ; 

He knew no base design : — 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true :— 
His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes 

He pass'd securely o'er, — 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown :— 

He wore a double-breasted vest, 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert : — 
He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse, 

Was sociable and gay :— 
He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view,— 
Nor make a noise, town- meeting days. 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune's chances,— 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easv circumstances. 



32 4 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, 
His peaceful moments ran ; — 

And everybody said he was 
A fine old gentleman. 

A.G.GREENE. 



f\ 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 



BOU 



BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in- 
crease!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight of his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And, to the presence in the room, he said, 
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its 

head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, "The names of those who love the 

Lord!" 
" And is mine one ' " asked Abou. — " Nay, not 

so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said—" 1 pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had 

blest 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 
LEIGH HUNT. 

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 



A. 



LL hail! thou noble land, 
Our fathers' native soil ! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil, 
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore i 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er 

The Genius of our clime, 

From his pine-embattled steep, 
Shalt hail the guest sublime j 

While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shal 
claim. 



pro- 



Then let the world combine, — 
O'er the main our naval line 
Like the milky-way shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Though ages long have pass'd 

Since our fathers left their home, 

Their pilot in the blast, 

O'er untravell'd seas to roam, 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 

And shall we not proclaim 

That blood of honest fame 

Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains? 

While the language free and bold 

Which the Bard of Avon sung, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault or heaven rung 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — 
While this with reverence meet, 

Ten thousand echoes greet, 
From rock to rock repeat 

Round our coast ; 

While the manners, while the arts, 
That mould a nation's soul, 

Still cling around our hearts, — 
Between let ocean roll, 
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 

Yet still from either beach 

The voice of blood shall reach, 

More audible than speech, 
"We are One." 

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

EPITHALAMIUM. 

I SAW two clouds at morning, 
Tinged with the rising sun ; 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one: 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

1 saw two summer currents, 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their course, with silent force, 

In peace each other greeting : 
Calm was their course through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies play'd between. 






> 

m 
X 
W 

o 
> 




GEMS OF POETRY. 



327 



Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 

Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

J. G. C. BRAINARD. 



(f, 



IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 



EY sin who tell us love can die : 
With life all other passions fly, 
All others are but vanity : 
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ; 
Earthly these passions of the Earth, 
They perish where they have their birth ; 
But Love is indestructible. 
Its holy flame forever burneth, 
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth ; 
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest, 
At times deceived, at times opprest, 
It here is tried and purified, 
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : 
It soweth here with toil and care, 
But the harvest-time of Love is there. 
SOUTHEY. 

THE COMMON LOT. 

NCE, in the flight of ages past, 

There lived a man ; and Who was He? 
Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 

That Man resembled Thee, 
Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown : 
His name has perished from the earth ; 
This truth survives alone :— 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 

Alternate triumphed in his breast; 
His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! — 

Oblivion hides the rest. 
The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 

The changing spirit's rise and fall ; 
We know that these were felt by him, 

For these are felt by all. 

He suffered,— but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoyed,— but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no more 

And foes, — his foes are dead. 




He loved, — but whom he loved the grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb: 

O, she was fair,— but naught could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that troubles thee : 
He was — whatever thou hast been ; 

He is — what thou shalt be. 
The rolling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, moon and stars, the earth and main, 
Erewhile his portion, life and light, 

To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 

That once their shades and glory threw 
Have left in yonder silent sky 

No vestige where they flew, 
The annals of the human race, 

Their ruins, since the world began, 
Of him afford no other trace 

Than this,— There lived a man. 

MONTGOMERY. 

THERE IS AN HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST. 

KSf) HERE is an hour of peaceful rest, 
^« To mourning wanderers given ; 
There is a joy for souls distress'd, 
A balm for every wounded breast— 
'Tis found above, in heaven. 

There is a soft, a downy bed, 

Far from these shades of even ; 
A couch for weary mortals spread, 
Where they may rest the aching head, 

And find repose in heaven. 

There is a home for weary souls, 

By sin and sorrow driven, 
When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals, 
Where storms arise and ocean rolls, 

And all is drear— 'tis heaven. 

There Faith lifts up her cheerful eye, 

The heart no longer riven ; 
And views the tempest passing by, 
The evening shadows quickly fly, 

And all serene in heaven. 

There fragrant flowers, immortal, bloom, 

And joys supreme are given : 
There rays divine disperse the gloom,— 
Beyond the confines of the tomb 

Appears the dawn of heaven. 

W. B. TAPPAN. 



328 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. | Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might 

of mailed men, 
i^OME hither, Evan Cameron; come, stand Not all the rebels in the South, had borne us 



beside my knee, — 
1 hear the river roaring down towards the wintry 

sea. 
There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's 

war within the blast : 
Old faces look upon me, — old forms go trooping 

past. 
1 hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight, 
And my dim spirit wakes again, upon the verge 

of night. 

'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild 

Lochaber's snows, 
What time the plaided clans came down to battle 

with Montrose. 
I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the 

broad claymore, 
And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inver- 

lochy's shore. 
I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed 

the Lindsays' pride, 
But never have I told thee yet how the Great 

Marquis died. 

A traitor sold him to his foes ;— O deed of death- 
less shame ! 

I charge thee, boy, if e'r thou meet with one of 
Assynt's name, 

Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the 
glen, 

Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed bv 



backwards then ! 
Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod 

as free as air, 
Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around 

him there ! 

It might not be. They placed him next within 
the solemn hall, 

Where once the Scottish kings were throned 
amidst their nobles all. 

But there was dust of vulgar feet on that pol- 
luted floor, 

And perjured traitors filled the place where good 
men sat before. 

With savage glee came Warriston, to read the 
murderous doom ; 

And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle 
of the room. 

" Now, by my faith as belted knight, and by the 
name I bear, 

And by the bright St. Andrew's cross that waves 
above us there, — 

Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, — and O, that 
such should be !— 

By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt 
you and me, — 

1 have not sought in battlefield a wreath of such 
renown, 

Nor hoped I on my dying day to win the mar- 
tyr's crown ! 



armed men,— 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who I "There is a chamber far away where sleep the 



wronged thy sire's renown ; 



good and brave, 



Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the But a better P lace >' e ' ve named for me than ^ ^ 



caitiff down. 

They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound 
with hempen span 

As though they held a lion there, and not a 
'fenceless man. 

But when he came, though pale and wan, he 
looked so great and high, 

So noble was his manly front, so calm his stead- 
fast eye, 

The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man 
held his breath ; 

For well they knew the hero's soul was face to 
face with death. 

Had I been there, with sword in hand, and fifty 
Camerons by, 



fathers' grave. 
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, this 

hand hath always striven, 
And ye raise it up for a witness still in the eye of 

earth and Heaven 
Then nail my head on yonder tower,— give every 

town a limb, — 
And God who made shall gather them : I go 

from you to him! " 

The morning dawned full darkly ; like a bride- 
groom from his room, 

Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and 
the doom. 

There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre 
in his eye, 



That day. through high Dunedin's streets, had And he never walked to battle more proudly than 



pealed the slogan-cry. 



to die 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



3 2g 



There was color in his visage, though the cheeks 

of all were wan, 
And they marv'lled as they saw him pass, that 

great and goodly man. 

Then radiant and serene he stood, and cast his 

cloak away, 
For he had ta'en his latest look of earth and sun 

and day. 
He mounted up the scaffold, and he turned him 

to the crowd 
But they dared not trust the people,— so he might 

not speak aloud 
But he looked upon the Heavens, and they were 

clear and blue, 
And in the liquid ether the eye of God shone 

through : 

A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round 

the shriven, 
And he climbed the lofty ladder as it were the 

path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a 

stunning thunder-roll ; 
And no man dared to look aloft ; fear was on 

every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, — a hush, and 

then a groan, 
And darkness swept across the sky, — the work 

of death was done. AYTOUN . 

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 

'ITY the sorrows of a poor old man, 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to 
your door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
Oh, give relief ! and Heav'n will bless your store. 

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, 
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ; 

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek 
Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 
With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; 

For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor I 
Here as I craved a morsel of their bread, 

A pamper'd menial drove me from the door. 
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 

Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome ! 
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! 

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb. 
For I am poor and miserably old. 



Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 

Your hands would not withhold the kind 
relief, 
And tears of pity would not be repress'd. 

Heav'n sends misfortunes, why should we re- 
pine? 
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see ; 

And your condition may be soon like mine — 
The child of sorrow and of misery . 

A little farm was my paternal lot, 
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn ; 

But ah ! oppression forc'd me from my cot, 
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 
Lur'd by a villain from her native home, 

Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage, 
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! 
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, 

Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair, 
And left the world to wretchedness and me. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your 
door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
Oh! give relief! and Heav'n will bless your 
store! 

MOSS. 

VIRTUE. 

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
By music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

GEORGE HERBERT. 



330 



GEMS OF POETRY, 



FLOWERS. 

WEET nurselings of the vernal skies, 
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, 
What more than magic in you lies 

To fill the heart's fond view ! 
In childhood's sports, companions gay ; 
In sorrow, on Life's downward way, 
How soothing! in our last decay 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, 

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours 

Of happy wanderers there. 
Fall'n all besides,— the world of life, 
How is it stain'd with fear and strife! 
In Reason's world what storms are rife 

What passions range and glare! 

But cheerful and unchanged the while 
Your first and perfect form ye show, 
The same that won Eve's matron smile 

In the world's opening glow. 
The stars of heaven a course are taught 
Too high above our human thought ; 
Ye may be found if ye are sought, 

And, as we gaze, we know. 

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, 
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow ; 
And guilty man, where'er he roams, 

Your innocent mirth may borrow. 
The birds of air before us fleet, 
They cannot brook our shame to meet; 
But we may taste your solace sweet, 

And come again to-morrow. 

Ye fearless in your nests abide ; 
Nor may we Scorn, too proudly wise, 
Your silent lessons, undescried 

By all but lowly eyes: 
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : 
Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 

He taught us how to prize. 



Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, 
As when He paused and own'd you good 
His blessing on Earth's primal bower, 

Ye felt it all renew'd. 
What care ye now, if Winter's storm 
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? 
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, 

Ye fear no vexing mood. 
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind 
That daily court you and caress, 
How few the happy secret find 

Of your calm loveliness ! 
44 Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light 
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight; 
Go sleep like closing flowers at night, 

And Heaven thy morn will bless." 



KEBLE. 



i 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 



HE glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things 
There is no armor against Fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on Kings ! 
Sceptre, Crown, 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, — 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late, 
They stoop to Fate, 
And must give up their conquering breath. 
When they, pale captives, creep te Death. 
The garlands wither on your brow ! — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds : 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 

J. SHIRLEY. 



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BOOK VI. 



FAMOUS ORATIONS, 







PATRICK HENRY ON RESISTANCE TO BRITISH AGGRESSION 



Book VI. 
Famous Orations, 



LEONIDAS TO HIS THREE HUNDRED. 




E men of Sparta, listen to the hope with which the gods inspire Leonidas ! 
Consider how largely our death may redound to the glory and benefit of our 
country. Against this barbarian king, who, in his battle array, reckons 
as many nations as our ranks do soldiers, what could united Greece effect ? In this 
emergency there is need that some unexpected power should interpose itself; — that 
a valor and devotion, unknown hitherto, even to Sparta, should strike, amaze, 
confound, this ambitious Despot ! From our blood, here freely shed to-day, shall 
this moral power, this sublime lesson of patriotism, proceed. To Greece it shall 
teach the secret of her strength ; to the Persians, the certainty of their weakness. 
Before our scarred and bleeding bodies, we shall see the great King grow pale at his 
own victory, and recoil affrighted. Or, should he succeed in forcing the pass of 
Thermopylae, he will tremble to learn, that, in marching upon our cities, he will find 
ten thousand, after us, equally prepared for death. Ten thousand, do I say ? O, 
the swift contagion of a generous enthusiasm ! Our example shall make Greece all 
fertile in heroes. An avenging cry shall follow the cry of her affliction. Country ! 
Independence ! From the Messenian hills to the Hellespont, every heart shall 
respond; and a hundred thousand heroes, with one sacred accord, shall arm 
themselves, in emulation of our unanimous death. These rocks shall give back the 
echo of their oaths. Then shall our little band, — the brave three hundred, — from 
the world of shades, revisit the scene ; behold the haughty Xerxes, a fugitive, 
re-cross the Hellespont in a frail bark; while Greece, after eclipsing the most 
glorious of her exploits, shall hallow a new Olympus in the mound that covers our 
tombs. 

Yes, fellow-soldiers, history and posterity shall consecrate our ashes. Wher- 
ever courage is honored, through all time, shall Thermopylae and the Spartan three 
hundred be remembered. Ours shall be an immortality such as no human glory 
has yet attained. And when ages shall have swept by, and Sparta's last hour shall 
have come, then, even in her ruins, shall she be eloquent. Tyrants shall turn 
away from them, appalled ; but the heroes of liberty — the poets, the sages, the 
historians of all time — shall invoke and bless the memory of the gallant three 
hundred of Leonidas ! 

17 333 



334 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

AESCHINES ON THE CROWN. 



\(S))HEN Demosthenes boasts to you, O Athenians, of his Democratic zeal, 
vv examine, not his harangues, but his life ; not what he professes to be, but 
what he really is ; — redoubtable in words, impotent in deeds, plausible in speech, 
perfidious in action. As to his courage — has he not himself, before the assembled 
People, confessed his poltroonery ? By the laws of Athens, the man who refuses to 
bear arms, the coward, the deserter of his post in battle, is excluded from all share 
in the public deliberation — denied admission to our religious rites, and rendered 
incapable of receiving the honor of a crown. Yet now it is proposed to crown a man 
whom your laws expressly disqualify. 

Which, think you, was the more worthy citizen, — Themistocles, who com- 
manded your fleet when you vanquished the Persian at Salamis, or Demosthenes 
the deserter ? — Miltiades, who conquered the Barbarians at Marathon, or this hireling 
traitor ? — Aristides, surnamed the Just, or Demosthenes, who merits a far different 
surname ? By all the gods of Olympus, it is a profanation to mention in the same 
breath this monster and those great men ! Let him cite, if he can, one among them 
all to whom a crown was decreed. And was Athens ungrateful ? No ! She was 
magnanimous ; and those uncrowned citizens were worthy of Athens. They placed 
their glory, not in the letter of a decree, but in the remembrance of a country, of 
which they had merited well, — in the living, imperishable remembrance ! 

And now a popular orator — the mainspring of our calamities — a deserter from 
the field of battle, a deserter from the city — claims of us a crown, exacts the 
honor of a proclamation ! Crown him ? Proclaim his worth ? My countrymen, 
this would not be to exalt Demosthenes, but to degrade yourselves — to dishonor 
tho-e brave men who perished for you in battle. Crown him? Shall his recreancy 
win what was denied to their devotion ? This would indeed be to insult the memory 
of the dead, and to paralyze the emulation of the living. 

When Demosthenes tells you that, as ambassador, he wrested Byzantium from 
Philip, — that, as orator, he roused the Acarnanians, and subdued the Thebans, — let 
not the braggart impose on you. He flatters himself that the Athenians are simple- 
tons enough to believe him, — as if in him they cherished the very genius of persua- 
sion, instead of a vile calumniator. But when, at the close of his defence, he shall 
summon to his aid his accomplices in corruption, imagine then, O Athenians, that 
you behold, at the foot of this tribune, from which I now address you, the great 
benefactors of the Republic arrayed against them. Solon, who environed our liberty 
with the noblest institutions, — Solon, the philosopher, the mighty legislator, — with 
that benignity so characteristic, implores you not to pay more regard to the honeyed 
phrases of Demosthenes than to your own oaths, your own laws. Aristides, who 
fixed for Greece the apportionment of her contributions, and whose orphan daughters 
were dowered by the People, is moved to indignation at this prostitution of justice, 
and exclaims : " Think on your fathers ! Arthmius of Zelia brought gold from Media 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 335 

into Greece, and, for the act, barely escaped death in banishment ; and now Demos- 
thenes, who has not merely brought gold, but who received it as the price of treachery, 
and still retains it, — Demosthenes it is unblushingly proposed to invest with a golden 
crown ! " From those who fell at Marathon and at Platsea — from Themistocles — 
from the very sepulchres of your ancestors — issues the protesting groan of condem- 
nation and rebuke. 



DEMOSTHENES AGAINST PHILIP. 



\(S)HEN I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some amongst us with their 
^^ actions, I am at a loss to reconcile what I see with what I hear. Their 
protestations are full of zeal against the public enemy ; but their measures are so 
inconsistent, that all their professions become suspected. By confounding you with 
a. variety of projects, they perplex your resolutions; and lead you from executing 
what is in your power, by engaging you in schemes not reducible to practice. 

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different your conduct appears, 
from the practices of your ancestors. They were friends to truth and plain dealing, 
and detested flattery and servile compliance. By unanimous consent, they con- 
tinued arbiters of all Greece, for the space of forty-five years, without interruption: 
a public fund, of no less than ten thousand talents, was ready for any emergency: 
they exercised over the kings of Macedon that authority which is due to barbarians; 
obtained, both by sea and land, in their own persons, frequent and signal victories ; 
and by their noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an immortal memory of their 
virtue, superior to the reach of malice and detraction. It is to them we owe that 
great number of public edifices, by which the city of Athens exceeds all the rest of 
the world in beauty and magnificence. It is to them we owe so many stately 
temples, so richly embellished, but, above all, adorned with the spoils of vanquished 
enemies. But, visit their own private habitations; visit the houses of Aristides, 
Miltiades, or any other of those patriots of antiquity ; you will find nothing, not the 
least mark or ornament, to distinguish them from their neighbors. They took part 
in the government, not to enrich themselves, but the public ; they had no scheme 
or ambition, but for the public: nor knew any interest, but the public. It was by a 
close and steady application to the general good of their country, by an exemplary 
piety towards the immortal gods, by a strict faith and religious honesty, betwixt 
man and man, and a moderation always uniform and of a piece, they established 
that reputation which remains to this day, and will last to utmost posterity. 

Such, O men of Athens! were your ancestors: so glorious in the eye of the 
world; so bountiful and munificent to their country; so sparing, so modest, so self- 
denying to themselves. What resemblance can we find, in the present generation, 
of these great men ? At a time, when your ancient competitors have left you a 
clear stage; when the Lacedemonians are disabled; the Thebans employed in 
troubles of their own ; when no other state whatever is in a condition to rival or 



336 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

molest you ; in short, when you are at full liberty ; when you have the opportunity 
and the power to become, once more, the sole arbiters of Greece ; you permit, 
patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from you ; you lavish the public money in 
scandalous and obscure uses ; you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace, 
whom you preserved in time of war; and, to sum up all, you yourselves, by your 
mercenary court, and servile resignation to the will and pleasure of designing, 
insidious leaders, abet, encourage, and strengthen the most dangerous and formidable 
of your enemies. Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of 
your own ruin. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny it ? Let him 
rise and assign, if he can, any other cause of the success and prosperity of Philip. 
"But," you reply, "what Athens may have lost in reputation abroad, she has 
gained in splendor at home. Was there ever a greater appearance of prosperity ; a 
greater face of plenty ? Is not the city enlarged ? Are not the streets better 
paved, houses repaired and beautified ? " Away with such trifles ! shall I be paid 
with counters ? An old square new vamped up ! a fountain ! an aqueduct ! Are 
these acquisitions to boast of ? Cast your eyes upon the magistrate, under whose 
ministry you boast these precious improvements. Behold the despicable creature 
raised, all at once, from dirt to opulence ; from the lowest obscurity to the highest 
honors. Have not some of these upstarts built private houses and seats vieing with 
the most sumptuous of our public palaces ? And how have their fortunes and their 
power increased, but as the Commonwealth has been ruined and impoverished. 

Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from this lethargy, you would assume the 
ancient freedom and spirit of your fathers ; if you would be your own soldiers and 
your own commanders, confiding no longer your affairs in foreign or mercenary 
hands ; if you would charge yourself with your own defence, employing abroad, 
for the public, what you waste in unprofitable pleasures at home ; the world might, 
once more, behold you making a figure worthy of Athenians. " You would have us 
then (you say) do service in our armies, in our own persons ; and, for so doing, you 
would have the pensions we receive in time of peace accepted as pay in time of war. 
Is it thus we are to understand you ? " Yes, Athenians, 'tis my plain meaning. I 
would make it a standing rule, that no person, great or little, should be the better 
for the public money, who should grudge to employ it for the public service. Are 
we in peace ? the public is charged with your subsistence. Are we in war, or 
under a necessity, as at this time, to enter into a war ? let your gratitude oblige you 
accept, as pay, in defence of your benefactors, what you receive in peace, as mere 
bounty. Thus, without any innovation ; without altering or abolishing anything, 
but pernicious novelties, introduced for the encouragement of sloth and idleness; by 
converting only, for the future, the same funds, for the use of the serviceable, 
which are spent, at present, upon the unprofitable; you may be well served in your 
armies ; your troops regularly paid ; justice duly administered ; the public revenues 
reformed and increased ; and every member of the Commonwealth rendered useful to 
his country, according to his age and ability, without any further burden to the state. 









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WASHINGTON 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 339 

This, O men of Athens ! is what my duty prompted me to represent to you 
upon this occasion. May the gods inspire you to determine upon such measures, as 
may be most expedient, for the particular and general good of our country ! 



CICERO AGAINST CATILINE. 



OW far, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience? How long shalt thou baffle 
justice in thy mad career? To what extreme wilt thou carry thy audacity? 
Art thou nothing daunted by the nightly watch, posted to secure the Palatium? 
Nothing, by the city guards? Nothing, by the rally of all good citizens? Nothing, 
by the assembling of the Senate in this fortified place? Nothing, by the averted 
looks of all here present? Seest thou not that all thy plots are exposed? — that thy 
wretched conspiracy is laid bare to every man's knowledge, here in the Senate? — 
that we are well aware of thy proceedings of last night ; of the night before ; — the 
place of meeting, the company convoked, the measures concerted? Alas, the 
times! Alas, the public morals! The Senate understands all this. The Consul 
sees it. Yet the traitor lives! Lives? Ay, truly, and confronts us here in council, — 
takes part in our deliberations, — and, with his measuring eye, marks out each man of 
us for slaughter! And we, all this while, strenuous that we are, think we have amply 
discharged our duty to the State, if we but shun this madman's sword and fury! 

Long since, O Catiline, ought the Consul to have ordered thee to execution 
and brought upon thy own head the ruin thou hast been meditating against 
others! There was that virtue once in Rome, that a wicked citizen was held more 
execrable than the deadliest foe. We have a law still, Catiline, for thee. Think 
not that we are powerless, because forbearing. We have a decree, — though it rests 
among our archives like a sword in its scabbard, — a decree, by which thy life would 
be made to pay the forfeit of thy crimes. And, should I order thee to be instantly 
seized and put to death, 1 make just doubt whether all good men would not think it 
done rather too late than any man too cruelly. But, for good reasons, I will yet 
defer the blow long since deserved. Then will I doom thee, when no man is found, 
so lost, so wicked, nay, so like thyself, but shall confess that it was justly dealt. 
While there is one man that dares defend thee, live! But thou shalt live so beset, 
so surrounded, so scrutinized, by the vigilant guards that I have placed around thee, 
that thou shalt not stir a foot against the Republic, without my knowledge. There 
shall be eyes to detect thy slightest movement, and ears to catch thy wariest 
whisper, of which thou shalt not dream. The darkness of night shall not cover 
thy treason — the walls of privacy shall not stifle its voice. Baffled on all sides, 
thy most secret counsels dear as noon-day, what canst thou now have in view? 
Proceed, plot, conspire, as thou wilt; there is nothing you can contrive, nothing 
you can propose, nothing you can attempt, which I shall not know, hear and 
promptly understand. Thou shalt soon be made aware that I am even more active 
in providing for the preservation of the State than thou in plotting its destruction! 



340 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CAESAR'S BODY. 



i^3)RIENDS, Romans, countrymen ! lend me your ears ; I come to bury Caesar, 
■ not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them ; the good is oft 

interred with their bones : so let it be with Caesar ! The noble Brutus hath told 
you Caesar was ambitious : if it were so it was a grievous fault ; and grievously hath 
Caesar answered it! Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (for Brutus is an 
honorable man ; so are they all — all honorable men ;) come I to speak in Caesar's 
funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : but Brutus says he was ambitious; 
and Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : ambition should be made of 
sterner stuff : yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; and Brutus is an honorable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, which 
he did thrice refuse — was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; and, 
sure, he is an honorable man. I speak, not to disprove what Brutus spoke; but 
here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once; not without cause: 
what cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? O judgment ! thou art fled to 
brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason. Bear with me ; my heart is in the 
coffin there with Caesar ; and I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar might have stood against the world ; now 
lies he there, and none so poor to do him reverence. O Masters ! if I were disposed 
to stir your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and 
Cassius wrong ; who, you all know, are honorable men: I will not do them wrong; 
I rather choose to wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, than 1 will wrong 
such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar : I found it 
in his closet, 'tis his will ! Let but the commons hear this testament, (which, 
pardon me, I do not mean to read.) And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's 
wounds and dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; yea, beg a hair of him for 
memory, and, dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy 
unto their issue ! 

If you have tears prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle ! I 
remember the first time ever Caesar put it on : 'twas on a summer's evening in his 
tent, that day he overcame the Nervii : — Look ! in this place ran Cassius's dagger 
through — see what a rent the envious Casca made : through this the well-beloved 
Brutus stabbed ; and, as he plucked his cursed steel away, mark how the blood of 
Caesar followed it ! as rushing out of doors to be resolved if Brutus so unkindly 
knocked, or no ; for Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : judge, O ye gods, 
how dearly Caesar loved him ! This, this was the unkindest cut of all ; for when 
the noble Caesar saw him stab, ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, quite 
vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart; and, in his mantle, muffling up his face, 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 34 I 

even at the base of Pompey's statue (which all the while ran blood) — great Caesar 
fell. Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us 
fell down ; whilst bloody treason flourished over us. Oh, now you weep ; and I 
perceive you feel the dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls! what, 
weep you, when you but behold our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here ! 
here is himself — marred, as you see, by traitors ! — Good friends ! sweet friends ! let 
me not stir you up to such a sudden flood of mutiny : they that have done this deed 
are honorable ; what private griefs they have, alas, I know not, that made them do 
it ; they are wise and honorable, and will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 1 
come not, friends, to steal away your hearts : I am no orator, as Brutus is ; but, as 
you know me all, a plain, blunt man, that love my friend ; and that they know full 
well, that gave me public leave to speak of him : for I have neither wit, nor words, 
nor worth, action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men's blood ; I 
only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; show you 
sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, and bid them speak for me. But 
were 1 Brutus, and Brutus Antony, there were an Antony would ruffle up your 
spirits, and put a tongue in every wound of Caesar, that should move the stones of 
Rome to rise and mutiny ! 

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 



'E call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has 
met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome 
could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who 
can say, that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, 
let him stand forth, and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me 
on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus, — a hired 
butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men ! My ancestors came from old 
Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My 
early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported ; and when, at noon, I gathered 
the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a 
friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the 
same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep 
were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, 
my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon, and Leuctra ; and how, in 
ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood 
a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew 
not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting 
the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, 
and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans 
landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof 
of the war-horse ; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of 
our dwelling ! 



342 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

To-day I killed a man in the arena ; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, 
behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died; — the 
same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, 
we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish 
triumph. I told the prcetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and 
brave ; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, 
and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the 
arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the 
holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare 
sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that 
piece of bleeding clay! And the prcetor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly 
said, — " Let the carrion rot ; there are no noble men but Romans ! " And so, fellow- 
gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O, Rome ! Rome ! thou hast been 
a tender nurse to me. Ay ! thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, 
who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of 
flint ; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, 
and warm it in the marrow of his foe ; — to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the 
fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl ! And he shall pay thee 
back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life- 
blood lies curdled ! 

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength of brass is in your 
toughened sinews ; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume 
from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his 
sesterces upon your blood. Hark ! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? 'Tis three 
days since he tasted flesh ; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — and 
a dainty meal for him ye will be ! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, 
waiting for the butcher's knife ! If ye are men, — follow me ! Strike down yon 
guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old 
Thermopylae ! Is Sparta dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that 
you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O, com- 
rades! warriors! Thracians! — if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we 
must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the 
clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle ! 



PAUL TO THE ATHENIANS. 



'E men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious. 

For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this 
inscription, TO THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, 
him declare I unto you. 

God that made the world and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of 
heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands; 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 343 

Neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed any thing, seeing 
he giveth to all life, and breath, and all things ; 

And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of 
the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of 
their habitation ; 

That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find 
him, though he be not far from every one of us. 

For in him we live, and move, and havE our being ; as certain also of your own 
poets have said, For we are also His offspring. 

Forasmuch then as we are the offspring of God, we ought not think that the 
Godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or stone, graven by art and man's device. 

And the times of this ignorance God winked at ; but now commandeth all men 
everywhere to repent : 

Because he hath appointed a day in which he will judge the world in righteous- 
ness by that man whom he hath ordained ; whereof he hath given assurance unto all 
men, in that he hath raised him from the dead. 



PITT'S REPLY TO WALPOLE. 



^LlR, the atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentleman 
^-^ has with such spirit and decency charged upon me, 1 shall neither attempt to 
palliate nor deny ; but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those 
whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant 
in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, 
1 will not, sir, assume the province of determining ; but, surely age may become 
justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without 
improvement, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The 
wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still 
to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the 
object of either abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should 
secure him from insult. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has 
advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and becomes more wicked with less 
temptation ; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends 
the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth, sir, is not my only 
crime : I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. — A theatrical part mav 
either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or dissimulation of my real sentiments, 
and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. 

In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves 
only to be mentioned to be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use 
my own language, and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this 
gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, or very solicitously copy his 



344 FAMOUS ORATIONS, 

diction or his mien, however matured by age or modelled by experience. But if 
any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior, imply that I utter any senti- 
ments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; nor shall any 
protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, 
without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity 
intrench themselves, nor shall any thing but age restrain my sentiment ; — age, 
which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious without 
punishment. But with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, 
that, if I bad acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure : the heat 
that has offended them is the ardor of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my 
country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit 
unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. 
I will exert my endeavors, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the 
thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villany, and whoever may partake 
of his plunder. 



LORD CHATHAM AGAINST THE AMERICAN WAR. 



I CANNOT, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and 
disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a 
time for adulation ; the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and 
awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. 
We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it, and 
display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin which is brought to our doors. 
Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatuation ? Can parliament 
be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus obtruded 
and forced upon them ? Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourish- 
ing empire to scorn and contempt ! " But yesterday and Britain might have stood 
against the world ; now, none so poor as to do her reverence." — The people, whom 
we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are 
abetted against us, supplied with every military store, have their interest consulted, 
and their ambassadors entertained, by our inveterate enemy — and ministers do not, 
and dare not, interpose, with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our army 
abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honors the British 
troops than I do ; I know their virtues and their valor ; I know they can achieve 
anything but impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of British America is an 
impossibility. You cannot, my Lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your 
present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three 
campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. You may swell every expense, 
accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every 
German despot : your attempts will be for ever vain and impotent — doubly so. 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 345 

indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely, for it irritates, to an incurable 
resentment, the minds of your adversaries to overrun them with the mercenary 
sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of 
hireling cruelty. If I were an American as I am an Englishman, while a foreign 
troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms — never, never, 
never I 



LORD BROUGHAM ON NEGRO SLAVERY. 



I TRUST that, at length, the time is come, when parliament will no longer bear 
to be told, that slave-owners are the best law-givers on slavery : no longer 
suffer our voice to roll across the Atlantic, in empty warnings and fruitless orders. 
Tell me not of rights — talk not of the property of the planter in his slaves. I deny 
his right — I acknowledge not the property. The principles, the feelings of our 
common nature, rise in rebellion against it. Be the appeal made to the understand- 
ing or to the heart, the sentence is the same — that rejects it ! In vain you tell me 
of laws that sanction such a claim ! There is a law, above all the enactments of 
human codes — the same, throughout the world — the same, in all times: such as it 
was, before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and opened to 
one world the sources of power, wealth, and knowledge ; to another, all utterable 
woes, — such is it at this day : it is the law written by the finger of God on the 
heart of man ; and by that law, unchangeable and eternal — while men despise fraud, 
and loathe rapine, and hate blood — they shall reject, with indignation, the wild and 
guilty fantasy, that man can hold property in man ! 

In vain you appeal to treaties — to covenants between nations. The covenants 
of the Almighty, whether the old covenant or the new, denounce such unholy 
pretensions. To these laws did they of old refer, who maintained the African 
trade. Such treaties did they cite — and not untruly ; for, by one shameful compact, 
you bartered the glories of Blenheim for the traffic in blood. Yet, in despite of law 
and of treaty, that infernal traffic is now destroyed, and its votaries put to death 
like other pirates. How came this change to pass ? Not, assuredly, by parliament 
leading the way : but the country at length awoke ; the indignation of the people 
was kindled ; it descended in thunder, and smote the traffic, and scattered its 
guilty profits to the winds. Now, then, let the planters beware — let their assem- 
blies beware — let the government at home beware — let the parliament beware ! 
The same country is once more awake — awake to the condition of negro slavery ; 
the same indignation kindles in the bosom of the same people ; the same cloud is 
gathering, that annihilated the slave trade ; and if it shall descend again, they on 
whom its crash may fall, will not be destroyed before I have warned them ; but I 
pray, that their destruction may turn away from us the more terrible judgments of 
God! 



346 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

SHERIDAN AGAINST POLITICAL JOBBING. 



|S this a time for selfish intrigues, and the little dirty traffic for lucre and emolu- 
' ment ? Does it suit the honor of a gentleman to ask at such a moment ? Does 
it become the honesty of a minister to grant? What! in such an hour as this, — at 
a moment pregnant with the national fate, when, pressing as the exigency may be, 
the hard task of squeezing the money from the pockets of an impoverished people, 
from the toil, the drudgery of the shivering poor, must make the most practised 
collector's heart ache while he tears it from them, — can it be that people of high 
rank, and professing high principles, — that they or their families should seek to 
thrive on the spoils of misery, and fatten on the meals wrested from industrious 
poverty ? O, shame ! shame ! . Is it intended to confirm the pernicious doctrine so 
industriously propagated, that all public men are impostors, and that every politician 
has his price ? Or, even where there is no principle in the bosom, why does not 
prudence hint to the mercenary and the vain to abstain a while, at least, and wait 
the fitting of the times ? Improvident impatience ! Nay, even from those who 
seem to have no direct object of office or profit, what is the language which their 
actions speak ? 

"The Throne is in danger! we will support the Throne; but let us share the 
smiles of royalty ! " " The order of nobility is in danger ! I will fight for nobility," 
says the Viscount; "but my zeal would be greater if I were made an Earl!" 
"Rouse all the Marquis within me," exclaims the Earl, "and the Peerage never 
turned forth a more undaunted champion in its cause than I shall prove ! " " Stain 
my green ribbon blue," cries out the illustrious Knight, "and the fountain of honor 
will have a fast and faithful servant ! " 

What are the people to think of our sincerity ? What credit are they to give 
to our professions? Is this system to be persevered in? Is there nothing that 
whispers to that right honorable gentleman that the crisis is too big, that the times 
are too gigantic, to be ruled by the little hackneyed and every-day means of ordinary 
corruption? Or, are we to believe that he has within himself a conscious feeling 
that disqualifies him from rebuking the ill-timed selfishness of his new allies? Let 
him take care that the corruptions of the Government shall not have lost it 
the public heart ; that the example of selfishness in the few has not extinguished 
public spirit in the many! 



BURKE ON THE IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN HASTINGS. 



r^K\ Y LORDS, I have done ; the part of the Commons is concluded. With a tremb- 
■ ■ ling solicitude we consign this product of our long, long labors, to your 
charge. Take it ! — Take it ! It is a sacred trust. Never before was a cause of 
such magnitude submitted to any human tribunal. 

My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Commons, and surrounded by 
them, I attest the retiring, I attest the advancing generations, between which, as a 




JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 349 

link in the great chain of eternal order we stand. We call this nation, we call the 
world to witness, that the Commons have shrunk from no labor, that we have been 
guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no compromise with crime, that we 
have not feared any odium whatsoever, in the long warfare which we have carried 
on with the crimes, with the vices, with the exorbitant wealth, with the enormous 
and overpowering influence of Eastern corruption. This war we have waged for 
twenty-two years, and the conflict has been fought at your Lordships' bar for the 
last seven years. My Lords, twenty-two years is a great space in the scale of 
the life of man ; it is no inconsiderable space in the history of a great nation. 

My Lords, your House yet stands, — it stands as a great edifice ; but let me say 
that it stands in the midst of ruins, — in the midst of the ruins that have been made 
by the greatest moral earthquake that ever convulsed and shattered this globe of 
ours. My Lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in such a state, that we 
appear every moment to be upon the verge of some great mutations. There is one 
thing, and one thing only, which defies all mutation, — that which existed before the 
world and will survive the. fabric of the world itself: I mean justice, — that justice 
which, emanating from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us, 
given us for our guide with regard to ourselves and with regard to others, and 
which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or accuser before 
the great Judge. 

My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with your Lordships; there is 
nothing sinister which can happen to you, in which we shall not be involved. And 
if it should so happen that we shall be subjected to some of those frightful changes 
which we have seen ; if it should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the de- 
corous distinctions of human society, should, by hands at once base and cruel, be 
led to those scaffolds and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious 
queens have shed their blood, amidst the prelates, amidst the nobles, amidst the 
magistrates who supported their thrones, may you, in those moments feel that con- 
solation which I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their agony! 

My Lords, may you stand as unimpeached in honor as in power! May you 
stand, not as a substitute for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for 
virtue ! May you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants ! May you stand 
the refuge of afflicted nations! May you stand a sacred temple, for the perpetual 
residence of an inviolable justice ! 



MIRABEAU'S EULOGIUM ON FRANKLIN. 



i©)RANKLIN is dead ! Restored to the bosom of the Divinity in that genius 
■ which gave freedom to America, and rayed forth torrents of light upon 

Europe. The sage whom two worlds claim — the man whom the History of Empires 
and the History of Science alike contend for — occupied, it cannot be denied, a lofty 
rank among his species. Long enough have political Cabinets signalized the death 
of those who were great in their funeral eulogies only. Long enough has the 



35o FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

etiquette of Courts prescribed hypocritical mournings. For their benefactors only 
should Nations assume the emblems of grief ; and the Representatives of Nations 
should commend only the heroes of humanity to public veneration. 

In the fourteen States of the Confederacy, Congress has ordained a mourning 
of two months for the death of Franklin ; and America is at this moment acquitting 
herself of this tribute of honor to one of the Fathers of her Constitution. Would 
it not become us, Gentlemen, to unite in this religious act; to participate in this 
homage, publicly rendered, at once to the rights of man, and to the philosopher who 
has contributed most largely to their vindication throughout the world ? Antiquity 
would have erected altars to this great and powerful genius, who, to promote the 
welfare of mankind, comprehending both the Heavens and the Earth in the range 
of his thought, could at once snatch the bolt from the cloud and the sceptre from 
tyrants. France, enlightened and free, owes at least the acknowledgement of her 
remembrance and regret to one of the greatest intellects that ever served the united 
cause of philosophy and liberty. I propose that it be now decreed that the National 
Assembly wear mourning, during three days, for Benjamin Franklin. 



PATRICK HENRY AGAINST BRITISH AGGRESSION. 



.[((RNR. PRESIDENT it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of Hope. We 

■ ■ are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of 
that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged 
in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the number 
of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so 
nearly concern our temporal salvation ? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it 
may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth, — to know the worst, and to 
provide for it. 

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and that is the lamp of 
experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, 
judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the 
British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen 
have been pleased to solace themselves and the House ? Is it that insidious smile 
with which our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, Sir ; it will prove 
a snare to your feet ! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss ! Ask 
yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike 
preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies 
necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so 
unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? 

Let us not deceive ourselves, Sir. These are the implements of war and 
subjugation, — the last arguments to which Kings resort. I ask Gentlemen, Sir, 
what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can 
Gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain any enemy 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 351 

in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? 
No, Sir, she has none. They are meant for us ; they can be meant for no other. 
They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry 
have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them ? — Shall we try 
argument ? Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we 
anything new to offer upon this subject ? Nothing. We have held the subject up 
in every light of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. 

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we 
find which have not already been exhausted. Let us not, I beseech you, Sir, deceive 
ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be done, to avert the 
storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we 
have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the Throne, and have 
implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and Parlia- 
ment. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced 
additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we 
have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the Throne. 

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and recon- 
ciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, — if we 
mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so 
long contending, — if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we 
have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon 
until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, — we must fight; I repeat it, 
Sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us ! 

They tell us, Sir, that we are weak, — unable to cope with so formidable an 
adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be the next week, or the 
next year ? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard 
shall be stationed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and 
inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on 
our backs, and hugging the delusive phanton of hope, until our enemies shall have 
bound us hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those 
means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. 

Three millions of People, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a 
country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy 
can send against us. Besides, Sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a 
just God who presides over the destinies of Nations, and who will raise up friends 
to fight our battles for us. The battle, Sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to the 
vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, Sir, we have no election. If we were 
base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no 
retreat but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are forged ! Their clanking 
may be heard on the plains of Boston ! The war is inevitable ; and let it come ! 
I repeat it, Sir, let it come ! 

It is in vain, Sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry. peace, peace! 
— but there is no peace. The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps 



352 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren 
are already in the field ! Why stand we here idle ? What is it that gentlemen 
wish ? What would they have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be 
purchased at the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know 
not what course others may take ; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death I 



FRANKLIN ON GOD IN GOVERNMENT, 



IN this situation of this Assembly, — groping, as it were, in the dark, to find political 
' truth, and scarce able to distinguish it when presented to us, — how has it hap- 
pened, Sir, that we have not hitherto once thought of humbly applying to the 
Father of Light to illuminate our understanding? In the beginning of the contest 
with Britain, when we were sensible of danger, we had daily prayers in this room 
for the divine protection. Our prayers, Sir, were heard, — and they were graciously 
answered. All of us who were engaged in the struggle must have observed fre- 
quent instances of a superintending Providence in our favor. To that kind Provi- 
dence we owe this happy opportunity of consulting in peace on the means of 
establishing our future national felicity. And have we now forgotten that powerful 
Friend? or do we imagine we no longer need His assistance? I have lived, .Sir, a 
long time; and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth, — 
that God governs in the affairs of men. And, if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground 
without His notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without His aid? We 
have been assured, Sir, in the Sacred Writings, that "except the Lord build the 
house, they labor in vain that build it." I firmly believe this; and I also believe 
that, without His concurring aid, we shall succeed in this political building no better 
than the builders of Babel, we shall be divided by our little, partial, local interests ; 
our projects will be confounded and we ourselves shall become a reproach and a by- 
word down to future ages. And, what is worse, mankind may hereafter, from this 
unfortunate instance, despair of establishing Government by human wisdom and 
leave it to chance, war, and conquest ! 



JOHN QUINCY ADAMS ON THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 



(^"HE Declaration of Independence ! The interest which, in that paper, has 
^ survived the occasion upon which it was issued — the interest which is of every 
age and every clime, — the interest which quickens with the lapse of years, spreads 
as it grows old, and brightens as it recedes, — is in the principles which it proclaims. 
It was the first solemn declaration by a Nation of the only legitimate foundation of 
civil Government. It was the corner-stone of a new fabric, destined to cover the 
surface of the globe. It demolished, at a stroke, the lawfulness of all Governments 
founded upon conquest. It swept away all the rubbish of accumulated centuries of 
servitude. It announced, in practical form, to the world, the transcendent truth of 







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BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 355 

the inalienable sovereignty of the People. It proved that the social compact was 
no figment of the imagination, but a real, solid, and sacred bond of the social union. 
From the day of this declaration, the People of North America were no longer the 
fragment of a distant empire, imploring justice and mercy from an inexorable 
master, in another hemisphere. They were no longer children, appealing in vain 
to the sympathies of a heartless mother ; no longer subjects, leaning upon the 
shattered columns of royal promises, and invoking the faith of parchment to secure 
their rights. They were a Nation, asserting as of right, and maintaining by war, 
its own existence. A Nation was born in a day. 

11 How many ages hence 
Shall this, their lofty scene, be acted o'er, 
In States unborn, and accents yet unknown ? " 

It will be acted o'er, fellow-citizens, but it can never be repeated. It stands, and 
must forever stand, alone ; a beacon on the summit of the mountain, to which all 
the inhabitants of the earth may turn their eyes, for a genial and saving light, till 
time shall be lost in eternity, and this globe itself dissolve, nor leave a wreck 
behind. It stands forever, a light of admonition to the rulers of men, a light of 
salvation and redemption to the oppressed. So long as this planet shall be inhabited 
by human beings, so long as man shall be of a social nature, so long as Government 
shall be necessary to the great moral purposes of society, so long as it shall be 
abused to the purposes of oppression, — so long shall this declaration hold out, to the 
sovereign and to the subject, the extent and the boundaries of their respective 
rights and duties, founded in the laws of Nature and of Nature's God. 



WASHINGTON ON FRANCE AND THE UNITED STATES. 



/SlORN, Sir, in a land of liberty ; having early learned its value, having en- 
k-^ gaged in a perilous conflict to defend it; having, in a word, devoted the best 
years of my life to secure its permanent establishment in my own country, — my 
anxious recollections, my sympathetic feelings, and my best wishes, are irresistibly 
excited, whensoever, in any country, I see an oppressed Nation unfurl the banners 
of freedom. But, above all, the events of the French Revolution have produced the 
deepest solicitude, as well as the hightst admiration. To call your Nation brave, 
were to pronounce but common praise. Wonderful people! Ages to come will 
read with astonishment the history of your brilliant exploits! I rejoice that the 
period of your toils and of your immense sacrifices is approaching. I rejoice that 
the interesting revolutionary movements of so many years have issued in the forma- 
tion of a Constitution designed to give permanency to the great object for which you 
have contended. I rejoice that liberty, which you have so long embraced with en- 
thusiasm, — liberty, of which you have been the invincible defenders, — now finds 
an asylum in the bosom of a regularly organized government; — a government, 
which, being formed to secure the happiness of the French People, corresponds 
is 



356 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

with the ardent wishes of my heart, while it gratifies the pride of every citizen of 
the United States, by its resemblance to his own. On these glorious events, accept, 
Sir, my sincere congratulations. 

In delivering to you these sentiments, I express not my own feelings only, but 
those of my fellow-citizens, in relation to the commencement, the progress, and 
the issue, of the French Revolution ; and they will cordially join with me in 
purest wishes to the Supreme Being, that the citizens of our sister Republic, our 
magnanimous allies, may soon enjoy in peace that liberty which they have pur- 
chased at so great a price, and all the happiness which liberty can bestow. 

I receive, Sir, with lively sensibility, the symbol of the triumphs and of the 
enfranchisement of your Nation, the colors of France, which you have now presented 
to the United States. The transaction will be announced to Congress; and the 
colors will be deposited with those archives of the United States which are at once 
the evidence and the memorial of their freedom and independence. May these be 
perpetual ! And may the friendship of the two Republics be commensurate with 
their existence ! 

MASSILLON ON IMMORTALITY. 



IF we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whole system of laws, 
■ manners and usages, on which human society is founded ! If we wholly perish 
with the body, these maxims of charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude and 
friendship, which sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they 
but empty words, possessing no real and binding efficacy ? Why should we heed 
them, if in this life only we have hope ? Speak not of duty. What can we owe to 
the dead, to the living, to ourselves, if all are, or will be, nothing ? Who shall dic- 
tate our duty, if not our own pleasures, — if not our own passions ? Speak not of 
morality. It is a mere chimera, a bugbear of human invention, if retribution ter- 
minate with the grave. 

If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? what the 
tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife or friend ? The char- 
acters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no ancestors, no descendants; 
since succession cannot be predicated of nothingness. Would we honor the illus- 
trious dead ? How absurd to honor that which has no existence ! Would we take 
thought for posterity ? How frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, 
like our own, must soon be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it 
bind nothing to nothing ? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, 
— what sanctity have they more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of 
an instrument that is broken ? 

To sum up all : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws but an 
insensate servitude ; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms which popular im- 
becility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable infringement upon the liberty of 
men,— an imposition, a usurpation ; the law of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty, 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 357 

a prejudice ; honor and probity, such stuff as dreams are made of ; and incests, 
murders, parricides, the most heartless cruelties, and the blackest crimes, are but 
the legitimate sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached 
to them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed on 
the credulity of the people. 

Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must inevita- 
bly lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that emancipation from 
error, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of their doctrines. Accept their 
maxims, and the whole world falls back into a frightful chaos ; and all the relations 
of life are confounded ; and all ideas of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most 
inviolable laws of society vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the govern- 
ment of states and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the har- 
mony of the body politic becomes discord; and the human race is no more than an 
assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, denaturalized, 
with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no other bond than irre- 
ligion, no other God than self ! Such would be the world which impiety would 
make. Such would be this world, were a belief in God and immortality to die out 
of the human heart. 

CLAY ON RECOGNIZING THE INDEPENDENCE OF GREECE. 



/SV RE we so low, so base, so despicable, that we may not express our horror, 
* * articulate our detestation, of the most brutal and atrocious war that ever 
stained earth, or shocked high Heaven, with the ferocious deeds of a brutal soldiery, 
set on by the clergy and followers of a fanatical and inimical religion, rioting in 
excess of blood and butchery, at the mere details of which the heart sickens? If 
the great mass of Christendom can look coolly and calmly on, while all this is per- 
petrated on a Christian People, in their own vicinity, in their very presence, let us, 
at least, show that, in this distant extremity, there is still some sensibility and 
sympathy for Christian wrongs and sufferings; that there are still feelings which 
can kindle into indignation at the oppression of a People endeared to us by every 
ancient recollection, and every modern tie. But, Sir, it is not first and chiefly for 
Greece that I wish to see this measure adopted. It will give them but little aid, — 
that aid purely of a moral kind. It, is, indeed, soothing and solacing, in distress to 
hear the accents of a friendly voice. We know this as a People. But, Sir, it is 
principally and mainly for America herself, for the credit and character of our com- 
mon country, that I hope to see this resolution pass, it is for our own unsullied name 
that I feel. 

What appearance, Sir, on the page of history, would a record like this make : 
— "In the month of January, in the year of our Lord and Saviour 1824, while all 
European Christendom beheld with cold, unfeeling apathy the unexampled wrongs 
and inexpressible misery of Christian Greece, a proposition was made in the Con- 
gress of the United States, — almost the sole, the last, the greatest repository of 



358 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

human hope and of human freedom, the representatives of a Nation capable of 
bringing into the field a million of bayonets, — while the freemen of that Nation 
were spontaneously expressing its deep-toned feeling, its fervent prayer for Grecian 
success: while the whole Continent was rising, by one simultaneous motion, 
solemnly and anxiously supplicating and invoking the aid of Heaven to spare Greece, 
and to invigorate her arms ; while temples and senate-houses were all resounding 
with one burst of generous sympathy ; — in the year of our Lord and Saviour, — that 
Saviour alike of Christian Greece and of us, — a proposition was offered in the 
American Congress, to send a messenger to Greece, to inquire into her state and 
condition, with an expression of our good wishes and our sympathies ; — and it was 
rejected !" Go home, if you dare, — go home, if you can, — to your constituents, 
and tell them that you voted it down ! Meet, if you dare, the appalling counten- 
ances of those who sent you here, and tell them that you shrank from the declara- 
tion of your own sentiments ; that, you cannot tell how, but that some unknown 
dread, some indescribable apprehension, some indefinable danger, affrighted you ; 
that the spectres of cimeters and crowns, and crescents, gleamed before you, and 
alarmed you ; and, that you suppressed all the noble feelings prompted by religion, 
by liberty, by National independence, and by humanity ! I cannot bring myself to 
believe that such will be the feeling of a majority of this House. 



WEBSTER ON LIBERTY AND UNION. 



I PROFESS, Sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the pros- 
perity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal 
Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and 
dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes 
us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our 
virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of dis- 
ordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, 
these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with 
newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its 
utility and its blessings ; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and 
wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun its pro- 
tection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, 
and personal happiness. 

I have not allowed myself, Sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie 
hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of pre- 
serving liberty when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I 
have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, 
with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard 
him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be 
mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserved, but how 







HENRY IRVING 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 36c 

tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and 
destroyed. 

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out 
before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. 
God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on 
my vision never may be opened what lies behind ! When my eyes shall be turned 
to behold, for the last time, the Sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the 
broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union ; on States dissevered, 
discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in 
fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorge- 
ous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the Earth, still full 
high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe 
erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured ; bearing for its motto, no such miser- 
able interrogatory as, " What is all this worth ? " nor those other words of delusion 
and folly, " Liberty first, and Union afterwards " ; but everywhere, spread all over 
in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea 
and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment 
dear to every true American heart — Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and 
inseparable ! 

VICTOR HUGO ON UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE. 



LfiNIVERSAL suffrage ! — what is it but the overthrow of violence and brute 
^* force — the end of the material and the beginning of the moral fact ? What 
was the Revolution of February intended to establish in France, if not this ? And 
now it is proposed to abolish this sacred right ! And what is its abolition, but the 
reintroduction of the right of insurrection ? Ye Ministers and men of State, who 
govern, wherefore do you venture on this mad attempt ? I will tell you. It is 
because the People have deemed worthy of their votes men whom you judge worthy 
of your insults ! It is because the people have presumed to compare your promises 
with your acts ; because they do not find your Administration altogether sublime ; 
because they have dared peaceably to instruct you through the ballot-box ! There- 
fore it is, that your anger is roused, and that, under the pretence that Society is in 
peril, you seek to chastise the People, — to take them in hand! And so, like that 
maniac of whom History tells, you beat the ocean with rods ! And so you launch 
at us your poor little laws, furious but feeble ! And so you defy the spirit of the 
age, defy the good sense of the public, defy the Democracy, and tear your unfor- 
tunate finger-nails against the granite of universal suffrage ! 

Go on, Gentlemen ! Proceed ! Disfranchise, if you will, three millions of 
voters, four millions, nay, eight millions out of nine ! Get rid of all these! It will 
not matter. What you cannot get rid of is your own fatal incapacity and ignor- 
ance ; your own antipathy for the People, and theirs for you ! What you cannot 
get rid of is the time that marches, and the hour that strikes ; is the earth that 
revolves, the onward movement of ideas, the crippled pace of prejudices; the 



362 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

widening gulf between you and the age, between you and the coming generation, 
between you and the spirit of liberty, between you and the spirit of philosophy ! 
what you cannot get rid of is the great fact that you and the Nation pass on 
opposite sides ; that what is to you the East is to her the West ; and that, while 
you turn your back on the Future, this great People of France, their foreheads all 
bathed in light from the day-spring of a new humanity, turn their back on the Past. 
Ah ! Whether you will it or no, the Past is past. Your law is null, void and 
dead, even before its birth : because it is not just; because it is not true ; because, 
while it goes furtively to plunder the poor man and the weak of his right of suffrage, 
it encounters the withering glance of a Nation's probity and sense of right, before 
which your work of darkness shall vanish; because, in the depths of the conscience 
of every citizen — of the humblest as well as the highest — there is a sentiment sub- 
lime, sacred, indestructible, incorruptible, eternal, — the Right ! This sentiment 
which is the very element of reason in man, the granite of the human conscience, 
— this Right is the rock upon which shall split and go to pieces the iniquities, the 
hypocrisies, the bad laws and bad governments of the world. There is the obstacle, 
concealed, invisible, — lost to view in the soul's profoundest deep, but eternally 
present and abiding, — against which you shall always strike, and which you shall 
never wear away, do what you will ! I repeat it, your efforts are in vain. You 
cannot deracinate, you cannot shake it. You might sooner tear up the eternal 
Rock from the bottom of the sea, than the Right from the heart of the people ! 



ROBERT EMMETT'S LAST SPEECH. 



\(@)HAT have I to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me 
^^ according to law? I have nothing to say which can alter your predetermina- 
tion, or that it would become me to say with any view to the mitigation of that 
sentence which you are here to pronounce, and which I must abide. But I have 
that to say which interests me more than life, and which you have labored — as was 
necessarily your office in the present circumstances of this oppressed country — to 
destroy. I have much to say why my reputation should be rescued from the load 
of false accusation and calumny which has been heaped upon it. I do not imagine 
that, seated where you are, your minds can be so free from impurity as to receive 
the least impression from what I am going to utter. I have no hope that I can 
anchor my character in the breast of a Court constituted and trammelled as this is. 
1 only wish, and it is the utmost I expect, that your Lordships may suffer it to float 
down your memories, untainted by the foul breath of prejudice, until it finds some 
more hospitable harbor, to shelter it from the rude storm by which it is at present 
buffeted. 

Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I 
should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me, without a murmur. But 
the sentence of the law which delivers my body to the executioner will through the 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 3*>5 

ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character to 
obloquy: for there must be guilt somewhere, — whether in the sentence of the Court, 
or in the catastrophe, posterity must determine. A man in my situation, my Lords, 
has not only to encounter the difficulties of fortune, and the force of power over 
minds which it has corrupted or subjugated, but the difficulties of established pre- 
judice: — the man dies, but his memory lives: that mine may not perish, that it may 
live in the respect of my countrymen, I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate 
myself from some of the charges alleged against me. When my spirit shall be 
wafted to a more friendly port, — when my shade shall have joined the bands of those 
martyred heroes who have shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in 
defence of their country and of virtue, — this is my hope: I wish that my memory 
and name may animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency 
on the destruction of that perfidious Government which upholds its dominion by 
blasphemy of the Most High, — which displays its power over man as over the beasts 
of the forest — which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand, in the name of 
God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or doubts a little more, or a little 
less, than the Government standard, — a Government which is steeled to barbarity 
by the cries of the orphans and the tears of the widows which it has made. 

I appeal to the immaculate God, — to the throne of heaven, before which I must 
shortly appear, — to the blood of the murdered patriots >vho have gone before, — that 
my conduct has been, through all this peril, and through all my purposes, governed 
only by the convictions which I have uttered, and by no other view than that of the 
emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under which she has 
so long and too patiently travailed ; and that I confidently and assuredly hope that, 
wild and chimerical as it may appear, there is still union and strength in Ireland to 
accomplish this noblest enterprise. Of this I speak with the confidence of intimate 
knowledge, and with the consolation that appertains to that confidence. Think not, 
my Lords, I say this for the petty gratification of giving you a transitory uneasiness; 
a man who never yet raised his voice to assert a lie will not hazard his character 
with posterity by asserting a falsehood on a subject so important to his country, and 
on an occasion like this. Yes, my Lords ; a man who does not wish to have his 
epitaph written until his country is liberated will not leave a weapon in the power 
of envy, nor a pretence to impeach the probity which he means to preserve even in 
the grave to which tyranny consigns him. 

Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. Let no man 
attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of 
my country's liberty and independence or that I could have become the pliant minion 
of power in the oppression and the miseries of my countrymen. The proclamation 
of the Provisional Government speaks for my views. No inference can be tortured 
from it to countenance barbarity or debasement at home, or subjection, humiliation 
or treachery from abroad. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for 
the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant. In the dignity of freedom 
I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and its enemy should enter 



3 4 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

only by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country — 
who have subjected myself to the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor, and 
now to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my 
country her independence,— am I to be loaded with calumny, and not suffered to 
resent it ? No, God forbid ! 

My Lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice. The blood for which you thirst 
is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim ; — it circulates, 
warmly and unruffled, through the channels which God created for nobler purposes, 
but which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to heaven. 
Be ye patient ! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and 
silent grave. My lamp of life is nearly extinguished. My race is run. The grave 
opens to receive me, — and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask, at 
my departure from this world ; — it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write 
my epitaph; for, as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not 
prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and 
peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do 
justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of 
the earth, — then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written ! 1 have done. 



KOSSUTH TO THE HUNGARIANS. 



(t§))UR Fatherland is in danger! Citizens! to arms! to arms! Unless the whole 
^^ Nation rise up, as one man, to defend itself, all the noble blood already shed 
is in vain; and, on the ground where the ashes of our ancestors repose, the Russian 
knout will rule over an enslaved people! Be it known to all Hungary, that the 
Austrian Emperor has let loose upon us the barbarous hordes of Russia; that a Rus- 
sian army of forty-six thousand men has broken into our country from Gallicia, and 
is on the march; that another has entered Transylvania; and that, finally we can 
expect no foreign assistance, as the People that sympathize with us are kept down 
by their rulers, and gaze only in dumb silence on our struggle. We have nothing 
to rest our hopes upon, but a righteous God, and our own strength. If we do not 
put forth that strength, God will also forsake us. 

Hungary's struggle is no longer our struggle alone. It is the struggle of popular 
freedom against tyranny. Our victory is the victory of freedom, — our fall is the 
fall of freedom. God has chosen us to free the nations from bodily servitude. In 
the wake of our victory will follow liberty to the Italians, Germans, Poles, Vallach- 
ians, Sclavonians, Servians, and Croatians. With our fall goes down the star of 
freedom over all. People of Hungary ! will you die under the exterminating sword 
of the savage Russians? If not, defend yourselves! Will you look on while the 

acks of the North tread under foot the bodies of your fathers, mothers, wives 
and children ? If not, defend yourselves ! Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens 
sent to the wilds of Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. > >5 

the murderous knout ? If not, defend yourselves! Will you behold your villages 
in flames, and your harvests destroyed ? Will you die of hunger on the land which 
your sweat made fertile ? If not, defend yourselves ! 

We call upon the People, in the name of God and the Country, to rise up in 
arms. In virtue of our powers and duty, we order a general crusade of the People 
against the enemy, to be declared from every pulpit and from every town-house of 
the country, and made known by the continual ringing of bells. One great effort, 
and the country is forever saved ! We have, indeed, an army which numbers some 
two hundred thousand determined men ; but the struggle is no longer one between two 
hostile camps; it is the struggle of tyranny against freedom, — of barbarism against 
all free Nations. Therefore must all the People seize arms and support the army, 
that, thus united, the victory of freedom for Europe may be won. Fly, then, 
united with the army, to arms, every citizen of the land, and the victory is sure. 



RUFUS CHOATE ON THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 



(3)HE birth-day of the "Father of his Country"! May it ever be freshly re- 
^ membered by American hearts ! May it ever reawaken in them a filial ven- 
eration for his memory ; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard to the country 
which he loved so well ; to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful 
energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted 
his life, in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he offered the 
counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as President of the Convention that framed 
our Constitution ; which he guided and directed while in the Chair of State, and 
for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came 
the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was 
the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred 
in our love ; and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last 
American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and might. 

Yes, Gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can 
share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory of his 
life, which enabled him to create his country, and, at the same time, secure an 
undying love and regard from the whole American people. " The first in the hearts 
of his countrymen ! " Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Un- 
doubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. 
But the American Nation, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. 
And the first love of that young America was Washington. The first word she 
lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; 
and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life ! 

Yes ! Others of our great men have been appreciated, — many admired by all. 
But him we love. Him we all love. About and around him we call up no dis- 
sentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements, — no sectional prejudice nor bias, 



366 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

— no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes. 
When the storm of battle grows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Wash- 
ington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall 
relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that denoted love of 
country, which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated. 

11 Where may the wearied eye repose, 

When gazing on the great, 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state?— 
Yes— one— the first, the last, the best, 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom Envy dared not hate, 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make man blush, there was but one." 



BLACK HAWK'S FAREWELL. 



lOU have taken me prisoner, with all my warriors. I am much grieved; for I 
expected, if I did not defeat you, to hold out much longer, and give you more 
trouble, before I surrendered. 1 tried hard to bring you into ambush, but your last 
General understood Indian fighting. I determined to rush on you, and fight you 
face to face. I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. The bullets flew 
like birds in the air, and whizzed by our ears like the wind through the trees in 
winter. My warriors fell around me; it began to look dismal. I saw my evil day at 
hand-. The sun rose dim on us in the morning, and at night it sank in a dark cloud, 
and looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that shone on Black Hawk. 
His heart is dead, and no longer beats quick in his bosom. He is now a prisoner to 
the white men ; they will do with him as as they wish. But he can stand torture, 
and is not afraid of death. He is no coward. Black Hawk is an Indian. 

He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to be ashamed. He has fought 
for his countrymen, against white men, who came, year affer year, to cheat them, 
and take away their lands. You know the cause of our making war. It is known 
to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it. The white men despise the 
Indians, and drive them from their homes. They smile in the face of the poor 
Indian, to cheat him ; they shake him by the hand, to gain his confidence, to make 
him drunk, and to deceive him. We told them to let us alone, and keep away from us ; 
but they followed on and beset our paths, and they coiled themselves among us like 
the snake. They poisoned us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in 

ger. We looked up to the Great Spirit. We went to our father. We were 
encouraged. His great council gave us fair words and big promises; but we got no 
satisfaction: things were growing worse. There were no deer in the forest. The 
opossum and beaver were fled. The springs were drying up, and our squaws and 
pappooses without victuals to keep them from starving. 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 3 6 7 

We called a great council, and built a great fire. The spirit of our fathers arose, 
and spoke to us to avenge our wrongs or die. We set up the war-whoop, and dug 
up the tomahawk; our knives were ready, and the heart of Black Hawk swelled 
high in his bosom, when he led his warriors to battle. He is satisfied. He will go 
to the world of spirits contented. He has done his duty. His father will meet him 
there, and commend him. Black Hawk is a true Indian, and disdains to cry like a 
woman. He feels for his wife, his children, and his friends. But he does not care 
for himself. He cares for the Nation and the Indians. They will suffer. He 
laments their fate. Farewell, my Nation! Black Hawk tried to save you, and 
avenge your wrongs. He drank the blood of some of the whites. He has been 
taken prisoner, and his plans are crushed. He can do no more. He is near his 
end. His sun is setting, and he will rise no more. Farewell to Black Hawk. 



LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. 



i©)OUR-SCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a 
■ new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all 

men are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any 
nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great 
battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final 
resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is 
altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot 
hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and 'dead, who struggled here, have 
consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little 
note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did 
here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work 
which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us 
to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored 
dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full 
measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have 
died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — 
and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish 
from the earth. 

LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL. 



2{3)ELLOW-COUNTRYMEN : At this second appearing to take the oath of the 
* Presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there 

was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued 
seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which 
public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of 



368 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of 
the nation, little that is new could be presented. 

The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known 
to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging 
to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured. 

On the occasion corresponding to this, four years ago, all thoughts were 
anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it ; all sought to avert it. 
While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether 
to saving the Union without war, insurgents' agents were in the city seeking to destroy 
it without war — seeking to dissolve the Union and divide its effects by negotiations. 

Both parties deprecated war ; but one of them would make war rather than let 
the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And 
the war came. 

The prayer of both could ^not be answered — those of neither have been 
answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world 
because of offences ! for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to that man 
by whom the offence cometh." 

If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offences which, in the 
providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His 
appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to North and South this 
terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern 
therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living 
God always ascribe to Him ? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this 
mighty scourge of war may soon pass away. 

Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's 
two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop 
of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was 
said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said: "The judgments of the 
Lord are true and righteous altogether." 

With malice toward none, with chanty for all, with firmness in the right, as 
God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind 
up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for 
his widow and for his orphan ; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and 
lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations. 

JEFFERSON ON REPUBLICANISM. 

lURING the throes and convulsions of the ancient world, — during the agonizing 
spasms of infuriated man, seeking, through blood and slaughter, his long-lost 
liberty, — it was not wonderful that the agitation of the billows should reach even 
this distant and peaceful shore, — that this should be more felt and feared by some, 
and less by others, — and should divide opinions as to measures of safety. But 
every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have called by 




DANIEL WEBSTER 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 371 

different names brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans; we are all 
Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union, or to 
change its republican form, let them stand, undisturbed, as monuments of the safety 
with which error of opinion may be tolerated, where reason is left free to combat it. 
I know, indeed, that some honest men fear a republican Government cannot be 
strong, — that this Government is not strong enough. But would the honest patriot, 
in the full tide of successful experiment, abandon a Government which has so far 
kept us free and firm, on the theoretic and visionary fear that this Government, the 
world's best hope, may, by possibility, want energy to preserve itself ? I trust not. 
I believe this on the contrary, the strongest Government on earth. I believe it the 
only one where every man, at the call of the law, would fly to the standard of 
the law, and would meet invasions of the public order as his own personal 
concern. Sometimes it is said that man cannot be trusted with the government 
of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others? Or have 
we found angels, in the form of Kings, to govern him? Let history answer this 
question. 

Let us, then, with courage and confidence, pursue our own Federal and Repub- 
lican principles — our attachment to Union and representative Government. 
Kindly separated, by nature and a wide ocean, from the exterminating havoc of one- 
quarter of the globe, — too high-minded to endure the degradations of the others, — 
possessing a chosen country, with room enough for our descendants to the thousandth 
and thousandth generation, — entertaining a due sense of our equal right to the use 
of our own faculties, to the acquisitions of our own industry, to honor and confidence 
from our fellow-citizens, resulting not from birth, but from our actions, and their 
sense of them, — enlightened by a benign religion, professed, indeed, and practised 
in various forms, yet all of them inculcating honesty, truth, temperance, gratitude, 
and the love of man, — acknowledging and adoring an overruling Providence, which, 
by all its dispensations, proves that it delights in the happiness of man here, and his 
greater happiness hereafter ; with all these blessings, what more is necessary, to 
make us a happy and prosperous People? 

Still one thing more, fellow-citizens; a wise and frugal Government, which shall 
restrain men from injuring one another, shall leave them otherwise free to regulate 
their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth 
of labor the bread it has earned. This is the sum of good government ; and this is 
necessary to close the circle of our felicities. 



FREDERICK DOUGLASS AT ARLINGTON CEMETERY ON DECORATION DAY. 



i£5)RIENDS and Fellow Citizens : Tarry here for a moment. My words shall be 
■ few and simple. The solemn rites of this hour and place call for no 

lengthened speech. There is, in the very air of this resting-ground of the unknown 
dead, a silent, subtle and all-pervading eloquence, far more touching, impressive, 
and thrilling than living lips have ever uttered. Into the measureless depths of 



372 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

every loyal soul it is now whispering lessons of all that is precious, priceless, holiest, 
and most enduring in human existence. 

Dark and sad will be the hour to this nation when it forgets to pay grateful 
homage to its greatest benefactors. The offering we bring to-day is due alike to the 
patriot soldier dead and their noble comrades who still live ; for, whether living or 
dead, whether in time or eternity, the loyal soldiers who imperiled all for country 
and freedom are one and inseparable. 

Those unknown heroes whose whitened bones have been piously gathered 
here, and whose green graves we now strew with sweet and beautiful flowers, choice 
emblems alike of pure hearts and brave spirits, reached, in their glorious career, that 
last highest point of nobleness beyond which human power cannot go. They died 
for their country. 

No loftier tribute can be paid to the most illustrious of all the benefactors of 
mankind than we pay to these unrecognized soldiers when we write above their 
graves this shining epitaph. 

When the dark and vengeful spirit of slavery, always ambitious, preferring to 
rule in hell than to serve in heaven, fired the Southern heart and stirred all the 
malign elements of discord, when our great Republic, the hope of freedom and self- 
government throughout the world, had reached the point of supreme peril, when the 
Union of these States was torn and rent asunder at the centre, and the armies of a 
gigantic rebellion came forth with broad blades and bloody hands to destroy the 
very foundation of American society, the unknown braves who flung themselves 
into the yawning chasm, where cannon roared and bullets whistled, fought and fell. 
They died for their country. 

We are sometimes asked, in the name of patriotism, to forget the merits of this 
fearful struggle, and to remember with equal admiration those who struck at the 
nation's life and those who struck to save it, those who fought for slavery and those 
who fought for liberty and justice. 

I am no minister of malice. 1 would not strike the fallen. I would not repel 
the repentant ; but may my " right hand forget her cunning and my tongue cleave 
to the roof of my mouth," if I forget the difference between the parties to that 
terrible, protracted, and bloody conflict. 

If we ought to forget a war which has filled our land with widows and 
orphans; which has made stumps of men of the very flower of our youth ; which 
has sent them on the journey of life armless, legless, maimed and mutilated ; which 
has piled up a debt heavier than a mountain of gold, swept uncounted thousands of 
men into bloody graves and planted agony at a million hearthstones — I say, if this 
war is to be forgotten, I ask, in the name of all things sacred, what shall men 
remember ? 

The essence and significance of our devotions here to-day are not to be found 
in the fact that the men whose remains fill these graves were brave in battle. If we 
met simply to show our sense of bravery, we should find enough on both sides to 
kindle admiration. In the raging storm of fire and blood, in the fierce torrent of shot 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 373 

and shell, of sword and bayonet, whether on foot or on horse, unflinching courage 
marked the rebel not less than the loyal soldier. 

But we are not here to applaud manly courage, save as it has been displayed 
in a noble cause. We must never forget that victory to the rebellion meant death 
to the republic. We must never forget that the loyal soldiers who rest beneath this 
sod flung themselves between the nation and the nation's destroyers. If to-day we 
have a country not boiling in an agony of blood, like France, if now we have a 
united country, no longer cursed by the hell-black system of human bondage, if the 
American name is no longer a by-word and a hissing to a mocking earth, if the star- 
spangled banner floats only over free American citizens in every quarter of the 
land, and our country has before it a long and glorious career of justice, liberty, and 
civilization, we are indebted to the unselfish devotion of the noble army who rest in 
these honored graves all around us. 



KING ON THE FUTURE OF AMERICA. 

I HAVE faith in the future, because 1 have confidence in the present. With our 
■ growth in wealth and in power, I see no abatement in those qualities, moral 
and physical, to which so much of our success is owing; and, while thus true to 
ourselves, true to the instincts of freedom, and to those other instincts, which, 
with our race, seem to go hand in hand with Freedom, — love of order and respect 
for law (as law, and not because it is upheld by force), — we must continue to 
prosper. 

The sun shines not upon, has never shone upon, a land where human happiness 
is so widely disseminated, where human government is so little abused, so free from 
oppression, so invisible, so intangible, and yet so strong. Nowhere else do the institu- 
tions which constitute a State rest upon so broad a base as here; and nowhere are 
men so powerless, and institutions so strong. In the wilderness of free minds, dis- 
sensions will occur ; and, in the unlimited discussion in writing and in speech, in 
town-meetings, newspapers, and legislative bodies, angry and menacing language 
will be used; irritations will arise and be aggravated; and those immediately con- 
cerned in the strife, or breathing its atmosphere, may fear, or feign to fear, that 
danger is in such hot breath and passionate resolves. But outside, and above, and 
beyond all this, is the People, — steady, industrious, self-possessed, — caring little for 
abstractions, and less for abstractionist, but, with one deep, common sentiment, and 
with the consciousness, calm, but quite sure and earnest, that, in the Constitution 
and the Union, as they received them from their fathers, and as they themselves 
have observed and maintained them, is the sheet-anchor of their hope, the pledge of 
their prosperity, the palladium of their liberty; and with this, is that other conscious- 
ness, not less calm and not less earnest, that, in their own keeping exclusively, and 
not in that of any party leaders or party demagogues, or political hacks, or specu- 
lators, is the integrity of that Union and that Constitution. It is in the strong arms 
and honest hearts of the great masses, who are not members of Congress, nor holders 



374 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

of office, nor spouters at town-meetings, that resides the safety of the State ; and 
these masses, though slow to move, are irresistible, when the time and the occasion 
for moving comes. 

I have faith, therefore, in the future; and when, at the close of this half century, 
which so comparatively few of us are to see, the account shall again be taken, and 
the question be asked, What has New York done since 1850 ? I have faith that the 
answer will be given in a City still advancing in population, wealth, morals, and 
knowledge, — in a City free, and deserving, by her virtues, her benevolent institu- 
tions, her schools, her courts and her temples, to continue free, and still part and 
parcel of this great and glorious Union — which may God preserve till Time shall be 
no more. 

PRENTISS ON OFFICIAL INTEGRITY. 



CLlNCE the avowal, Mr. Chairman, of the unprincipled and barbarian motto, that 
^- * "to the victors belong the spoils," office, which was intended for the service 
and benefit of the People, has become but the plunder of party. Patronage is 
waved like a huge magnet over the land ; and demagogues, like iron-filings, attracted 
by a law of their nature, gather and cluster around its poles. Never yet lived the 
demagogue who would not take office. The whole frame of our Government — all 
the institutions of the country — are thus prostituted to the uses of party. Office 
is conferred as the reward of partisan service ; and what is the consequence ? The 
incumbents, being taught that all moneys in their possession belong, not to the 
People, but to the party, it requires but small exertion of casuistry to bring them to 
the conclusion that they have a right to retain what they may conceive to be the 
value of their political services — just as a lawyer holds back his commissions. 

Sir, I have given you but three or four cases of defalcations. Would time per- 
mit, I could give you a hundred. Like the fair Sultana of the Oriental legends, I 
could go on for a thousand and one nights ; and even as in those Eastern stories, so in 
the chronicles of the office-holders, the tale would ever be of heaps of gold, massive 
ingots, uncounted riches. Why, Sir, Aladdin's wonderful lamp was nothing to it. 
They seem to possess the identical cap of Fortunatus. Some wish for fifty thousand 
dollars, some for a hundred thousand, and some for a million — and behold, it lies 
in glittering heaps before them ! Not even 

"The gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold" 

in such lavish abundance, as does this Administration upon its followers. Pizarro 
held not forth more dazzling lures to his robber band, when he led them to the con- 
quest of the "Children of the Sun." 

And now it is proposed to make up these losses through defaulters by retrench- 
ment ! And what do you suppose are to be the subjects of this new and sudden 
economy ? What branches of the public service are to be lopped off, on account of 
the licentious rapacity of the office-holders? I am too indignant to tell you. Look 




HENRY CLAY 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 377 

into the report of the Secretary of the Treasury, and you will find out. Well, Sir, 
what are they ? Pensions, harbors, and lighthouses! Yes, Sir; these are recom- 
mended as proper subjects for retrenchment. First of all the scarred veterans of the 
Revolution are to be deprived of a portion of the scanty pittance doled out to them 
by the cold charity of the country. How many of them will you have to send forth 
as beggars on the very soil which they wrenched from the hand of tyranny, to make 
up the amount of even one of these splendid robberies ? How many harbors will it 
take — those improvements dedicated no less to humanity than to interest — those 
nests of commerce to which the canvas-winged birds of the ocean flock for safety ? 
How many light-houses will it take ? How many of those bright eyes of the ocean 
are to be put out? How many of those faithful sentinels, who stand along our 
rocky coast, and, peering far out in the darkness, give timely warning to the hardy 
mariner where the lee-shore threatens — how many of these, I ask, are to be dis- 
charged from their humane service ? Why, the proposition is almost impious ! L 
should as soon wish to put out the stars of heaven ! Sir, my blood boils at the cold- 
blooded atrocity with which the Administration proposes thus to sacrifice the very 
family jewels of the country, to pay for the consequences of its own profligacy! 



HAYNE ON SOUTHERN PATRIOTISM. 

IF there be one State in the Union, Mr. President (and 1 say it not in a boastful 
spirit), that may challenge comparisons with any other, for an uniform, zealous, 
ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the Union, that State is South Carolina. 
Sir, from the very commencement of the Revolution, up to this hour, there is no 
sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made, — no service she has ever 
hesitated to perform. She has adhered to you in your prosperity ; but in your ad- 
versity she has clung to you with more than filial affection. No matter what was 
the condition of her domestic affairs, — though deprived of her resources, divided by 
parties, or surrounded with difficulties, — the call of the country has been to her as 
the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased at the sound : every man became at 
once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding to- 
gether to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country. 

What, Sir, was the conduct of the South during the Revolution ? Sir, I honor 
New England for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But, great as is the praise 
which belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is due to the South. They es- 
poused the quarrel of their brethren, with a generous zeal, which did not suffer 
them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. Favorites of the mother 
country, possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create a commercial rivalship,. 
they might have found in their situation a guarantee that their trade would be for- 
ever fostered and protected by Great Britain. But, trampling on all considerations" 
either^ef interest or of safety, they rushed into the conflict, and, fighting for prin- 
ciple, perilled all, in the sacred cause of freedom. Never was there exhibited, in 

'9 



378 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

the history of the world, higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering and 
heroic endurance, than by the Whigs of Carolina, during the Revolution. The 
whole State, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force 
of enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, 
or were consumed by the foe. The "plains of Carolina " drank up the most pre- 
cious blood of her citizens. Black and smoking ruins marked the places which had 
been the habitations of her children ! Driven from their homes, into the gloomy 
and almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty survived ; and 
South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumpters and her Marions, proved, 
by her conduct, that though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her People was 
invincible. 

McDUFFIE ON POPULAR ELECTIONS, 



\(€))E have been frequently told that the farmer should attend to his plough, and 
*v the mechanic to his handicraft, during the canvass for the Presidency. Sir, 
a more dangerous doctrine could not be inculcated. If there is any spectacle from 
the contemplation of which I would shrink with peculiar horror, it would be that of 
the great mass of the American People sunk into a profound apathy on the subject 
of their highest political interests. Such a spectacle would be more portentous, to 
the eye of intelligent patriotism, than all the monsters of the earth, and fiery signs 
of the Heavens, to the eye of trembling superstition. If the People could be in- 
different to the fate of a contest for the Presidency, they would be unworthy of 
freedom. 

" Keep the People quiet ! Peace ! Peace ! " Such are the whispers by which 
the People are to be lulled to sleep, in the very crisis of their highest concerns. 
Sir, "you make a solitude, and call it peace ! " Peace? 'T is death ! Take away 
all interest from the People in the election of their Chief Ruler, and liberty is no 
more. What, Sir, is to be the consequence? If the People do not elect the Pres- 
ident, somebody must. There is no special Providence to decide the question. 
Who, then, is to make the election, and how will it operate? Make the People in- 
different, destroy their legitimate influence, and you communicate a morbid violence 
to the efforts of those who are ever ready to assume the control of such affairs, the 
mercenary intriguers and interested office-hunters of the country. Tell me not, Sir 
of popular violence ! Show me a hundred political factionists, — men who look to 
the election of a President as a means of gratifying their high or their low ambition, 
— and I will show you the very materials for a mob, ready for any desperate ad- 
venture, connected with their common fortunes. The People can have no such 
motives ; they look only to the interest and glory of the country. 

There was a law of Athens which subjected every citizen to punishment who 
refused to take sides in the political parties which divided the Republic. It was 
founded in the deepest wisdom. The ambitious few will inevitably acquire the as- 
cendency, in the conduct of human affairs, if the patriotic many, the People, are 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 379 

not stimulated and roused to a proper activity and effort. Sir, no Nation on earth 
has ever exerted so extensive an influence on human affairs as this will certainly 
exercise, if we preserve our glorious system of Government in its purity. The 
liberty of this country is a sacred depository — a vestal fire, which Providence has 
committed to us for the general benefit of mankind. It is the world's last hope. 
Extinguish it, and the earth will be covered with eternal darkness. But once put 
out that fire, and I " know not where is the Promethean heat which can that light 
relume." 

BEECHER AT GREELEY'S FUNERAL. 

/(SPHERE is no one that dies whose death is not momentous, if we but behold 
^ it as God's angels do ; and yet when men have filled the household with 
their presence, and society has been made a beneficiary by their kindnesses and by 
their wisdom, death becomes still more momentous. Every day hundreds and 
hundreds are borne through your streets and laid away to sleep in yonder Green- 
wood, leaving behind them sorrow and tears, and many reverent thoughts ; and 
yet of all that have passed through on their way to their long home, no one, I 
think, has gone, or for a long time will go, bearing with him so many sympathies, 
so much kindness, so many tender recollections, so much that should be instructive, 
as he who lies here before you. 

Who is this man, bearing upon him all the civic honors that the land could give 
him ? Who is this man ? One whose wealth has made him a prince in benevo- 
lence ? He was not rich in living, nor in dying rich. Who is this man ? Some 
one gifted with all kindness of heart, and singular tact of administration, that 
should make every one his friend who came near him ? But he was a man of war, 
who for thirty years has filled the land with the racket of various controversies ; 
and yet to-day, without office, without title, without place except that of the 
humblest citizen, the Government itself stands still, and the honored representa- 
tive and Chief Magistrate of this great people is here to bow his head in unfeigned 
sympathy. Here are also heads of Departments, and men of every style of 
thought ; here are men who have scarcely yet laid down the bow from which the 
last arrow has been shot — all gathered to-day by one impulse — the business of the 
street almost stopped ; private dwellings showing the significant tokens of their 
sorrow — all gathered in genuine sympathy around about this man who can speak no 
more, walk in our presence no more, but has gone out from us forever. 

Is it that death has made us forget all our differences ? We have not forgotten 
them. Is it that strained courtesy that lays aside criticism in the presence of death 
as something too august for man to trifle with ? But we differ to-day as much in 
theory, as much in philosophy, in the best methods of policy, as we did a month 
ago. A month ago the whole land was full of clamor. A little while ago men 
were in fierce battle. There has been no change in it ; and yet he who was the 
chief mark on one side lies before you ; and you press around him in tears to-day 



38o FAMOUS ORATIONS, 

to do him reverence. It is because the man is more than a professional man ; not 
the candidate, not the editor. The man that lay under them all is honored and 
honorable. And when the conflicts of life intermit for a moment and you can take off 
your harness, and look into that which belongs to your essential manhood, you do 
revere him and love him. And since the circumstances of his going were so won- 
derfully dramatic, since stroke after stroke resounded through the land to make his 
death one which in every feature is calculated most deeply to affect all, you are 
brought together to express here your honor and your reverence for Horace Greeley. 

It is given to but very few men, the Divine Jesus chiefly, and in lesser measure 
to Plato, so to think that their thoughts go on as institutions, working down through 
the generations. Such men are the masters of men and the masters of minds, and 
they are but few. Most men are great by their circumstances, and great by the 
exertions of powers which have an application by reason of transient circum- 
stances ; there are others who are great because they have fertile lives, and it is 
permitted them to mingle their lives with the lives of others. This has been done 
by him who can write no more and speak no more. For thirty years he has 
builded for himself no outward monument, no long line of literary efforts, no man- 
sion, no estate ; but for thirty years that heart that meant well by every human 
being has been beating, beating, and giving some drops of its blood to countless 
multitudes, until to-day, between the two oceans, there is hardly an intelligent man 
or child that does not feel the influence of the life of Horace Greeley. He is lost 
in his individuality, but his work is as great as the character and the currents and 
the tendencies of this great American people. 

And now what matters it, in your present thought, that in political economy he 
was on one side and you were on the other ; that in the party divisions of life he 
was on one side and you were on the other ? That which at this hour beseems 
you, and that which is in accordance with every man's feeling to-day, is this : 
Horace Greeley gave the strength of his life to education, to honest industry, to 
humanity, especially toward the poor and the unfriended. He was feet for the 
lame ; he was tongue for the dumb ; he was an eye for the blind ; and had a heart 
for those who had none to sympathize with them. His nature longed for more 
love than it had, and more sympathy than was ever administered to it. The great 
heart working through life fell at last. He had poured his life out for thirty years 
into the life of his time. It has been for intelligence, for industry, for an honester 
life and a nobler manhood ; and, though he may not be remembered by those 
memorials which carry other men's names down, his deeds will be known and felt 
to the latest generations in our land. 

The husbandman reaps his wheat and it is threshed, and the straw goes back 
again to the ground and the chaff. It matters not how much or how little wheat is 
garnered. Even that perishes. Some of it goes to seed again and into the ground ; 
more of it becomes the farmer himself. He holds the plow with his hand ; he 
gathers in again other harvests with his skill ; he becomes the man. It is no 
longer wheat ; it is the man. The harvest has been garnered, and it reappears in 




LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 383 

the school-boy, the pioneer settler in the distant West, in the young, thriving men 
of our cities and towns. To these men Horace Greeley's life has gone out. He has 
been a national benefactor, and to-day we bear testimony to these under virtues 
which made his life conspicuous. We were attracted so much to the politics of the 
times that we gave no notice to those nobler under qualities of true manhood in 
him ; but to-day we think better. To-day we are all speaking kindly of him — sor- 
rowfully. To-day we are asking what things there may be said of him, and what 
we may add to praise him fairly and justly. 

Oh ! men, is there nothing for you to do — you who with uplifted hands a few 
short weeks ago were doing such battle ? Look at what you were then, and what 
you are now. Are there no lessons to be learned, no corrections to be made ? 
Think of those conflicts, in which you forgot charity, kindliness, goodness ! Think 
of those fierce battles, almost unto blood — in just such you have mingled, out of 
just such you have come. What do you think of them now ? Look here at all 
that remains of this man. Did you not magnify the differences ? Did you not 
give yourselves to your malign passions, and too little to justice and divine charity? 
As you stand to-day it is not enough that you should mourn with those that mourn. 
It is wise that you should carry back with you a tempered and kinder and chastened 
feeling. 

At last, at last ! he rests as one that has been driven through a long voyage by 
storms that would not abate, but reaches the shore and stands upon the firm 
earth ; sees again the shady trees and the green fields, and the beaming sun. So 
he, through a long and not untempestuous voyage, has reached the shore and is at 
rest. Oh ! how sweet the way that leads to the grave, when that grave is God's 
golden gate to immortality ! How blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ! God 
grant that, in the solemnity of these thoughts in which we have gathered to-day, it 
may be ours so to live that when we die angels shall open the gate and receive us 
into the joy and glory of our Lord. 



GARFIELD ON THE READING OF THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION. 



)ET us pause to consider the actors in that scene. In force of character, in thor- 
oughness and breadth of culture, in experience of public affairs and in national 
reputation, the Cabinet that sat around that council-board has had no superior, per- 
haps no equal, in our history. Seward, the finished scholar, the consummate orator, 
the great leader of the Senate, had come to crown his career with those achieve- 
ments which placed him in the first rank of modern diplomatists. Chase, with a 
culture and a fame of massive grandeur, stood as the rock and pillar of the public 
credit, the noble embodiment of the public faith. Stanton was there, a very Titan 
of strength, the great organizer of victory. Eminent lawyers, men of business, 
leaders of states and leaders of men, completed the group. 

But the man who presided over that council, who inspired and guided its 
deliberations, was a character so unique that he stood alone, without a model in 



384 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

history or a parallel among men. Born on this day, sixty-nine years ago, to an 
inheritance of extremest poverty; surrounded by the rude forces of the wilderness; 
wholly unaided by parents ; only one year in any school ; never, for a day, master 
of his own time until he reached his majority; making his way to the profession of 
the law by the hardest and roughest road ; yet by force of unconquerable will and 
persistent, patient work, he attained a foremost place in his profession, 

And, moving up from high to higher, 
Became, on fortune's crowning slope, 
The pillar of a people's hope, 
The centre of a world's desire. 

At first, it was the prevailing belief that he would be only the nominal head 
of his administration ; that its policy would be directed by the eminent statesmen 
he had called to his council. How erroneous this opinion was, may be seen from a 
single incident : 

Among the earliest, most difficult, and most delicate duties of his administra- 
tion, was the adjustment of our relations with Great Britain. Serious complications, 
even hostilities were apprehended. On the 21st of May, 1861, the Secretary of 
State presented to the President his draught of a letter of instructions to Minister 
Adams, in which the position of the United States and the attitude of Great Britain 
were set forth with the clearness and force which long experience and great ability 
had placed at the command of the Secretary. 

Upon almost every page of that original draught are erasures, additions, and 
marginal notes in the handwriting of Abraham Lincoln, which exhibit a sagacity, a 
breadth of wisdom, and a comprehension of the whole subject, impossible to be 
found except in a man of the very first order. And these modifications of a great 
state paper were made by a man who, but three months before, had entered, for 
the first time, the wide theatre of Executive action. 

Gifted with an insight and a foresight which the ancients would have called 
divination, he saw, in the midst of darkness and obscurity, the logic of events, and 
forecast the result. From the first, in his own quaint, original way, without osten- 
tation or offence to his associates, he was pilot and commander of his administration. 
He was one of the few great rulers whose wisdom increased with his power, and 
whose spirit grew gentler and tenderer as his triumphs were multiplied. 

CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW ON THE WASHINGTON CENTENARY. 

firJHri simple and imposing ceremony over, the inaugural read, the blessing of God 
^ prayerfully petitioned in old St. Paul's, the festivities passed, and Washington 
stood alone. No one else could take the helm of state, and enthusiast and doubter 
alike trusted only him. The teachings and habits of the past had educated the peo- 
ple to faith in the independence of their States, and for the supreme authority of the 
new Government there stood against the precedent of a century and the passions of 
the hour little besides the arguments of Hamilton, Madison and Jay in " The 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 38= 

Federalist, *' and the judgment of Washington. With the first attempt to exercise 
National power began the duel to the death between State sovereignty, claiming the 
right to nullify Federal laws or to secede from the Union and the power of the Re- 
public to command the resources of the country, to enforce its authority and protect 
its life. It was the beginning of the sixty years' war for the Constitution and the 
Nation. It seared consciences, degraded politics, destroyed parties, ruined states- 
men, and retarded the advance and development of the country; it sacrificed thousands 
of precious lives, and squandered thousands of millions of money ; it desolated the 
fairest portion of the land and carried mourning into every home North and South ; 
but it ended at Appomattox in the absolute triumph of the Republic. 

Posterity owes to Washington's Administration the policy and measures, the 
force and direction, which made possible this glorious result. In giving the organiza- 
tion of the Department of State and foreign relations to Jefferson, the Treasury to 
Hamilton, and the Supreme Court to Jay, he selected for his Cabinet and called to 
his assistance the ablest and most eminent men of his time. Hamilton's marvellous 
versatility and genius designed the armory and the weapons for the promotion of 
National power and greatness, but Washington's steady support carried them 
through. Parties crystallized, and party passions were intense, debates were in- 
temperate, and the Union openly threatened and secretly plotted against, as the 
firm pressure of this mighty personality funded the debt and established credit, as- 
sumed the State debts incurred in the war of the Revolution and superseded the 
local by the National obligation, imposed duties upon imports and excise upon spirits, 
and created revenue and resources, organized a National Banking system for public 
needs and private business, and called out an army to put down by force of arms re- 
sistance to the Federal laws imposing unpopular taxes. Upon the plan marked out 
by the Constitution, this great architect, with unfailing faith and unfaltering courage, 
builded the Republic. He gave to the Government the principles of action and 
sources of power which carried it successfully through the wars with Great Britain 
in 1812 and Mexico in 1848, which enabled Jackson to defeat nullification, and re- 
cruited and equipped millions of men for Lincoln and justified and sustained his 
Proclamation of Emancipation. 

• The French Revolution was the bloody reality of France and the nightmare of 
the civilized world. The tyranny of centuries culminated in frightful reprisals and 
reckless revenges. As parties rose to power and passed to the guillotine, the frenzy 
of the revolt against all authority reached every country and captured the imagina- 
tions and enthusiasm of millions in every land, who believed they saw that the 
madness of anarchy, the overturning of all institutions, the confiscation and distribu- 
tion of property, would end in a millennium for the masses and the universal bro- 
therhood of man. Enthusiasm for France, our late ally, and the terrible commercial 
and industrial distress occasioned by the failure of the Government under the 
Articles of Confederation, aroused an almost unanimous cry for the young Republic, 
not yet sure of its own existence, to plunge into the vortex. The ablest and purest 
statesmen of the time bent to the storm, but Washington was unmoved. He stood 



386 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

like the rock-ribbed coast of a continent between the surging billows of fanaticism 
and the child of his love. Order is Heaven's first law, and the mind of Washington 
was order. The Revolution defied God and derided the law. Washington devoutly 
reverenced the Deity and believed liberty impossible without law. He spoke 
to the sober judgment of the Nation and made clear the danger. He saved 
the infant Government from ruin, and expelled the French Minister who had 
appealed from him to the people. The whole land, seeing safety only in his 
continuance in office, joined Jefferson in urging him to accept a second term. 
" North and South, " pleaded the Secretary, "will hang together while they have 
you to hang to." 

No man ever stood for so much to his country and to mankind as George 
Washington. Hamilton, Jefferson and Adams, Madison and Jay, each represented 
some of the elements which formed the Union. Washington embodied them all. 
They fell at times under popular disapproval, were burned in effigy, were stoned, 
but he, with unerring judgment, was always the leader of the people. Milton said 
of Cromwell, "that war made him great, peace greater." The superiority of 
Washington's character and genius were more conspicuous in the formation of our 
Government and in putting it on indestructible foundations than in leading armies to 
victory and conquering the independence of his country. "The Union in any 
event," is the central thought of his farewell address, and all the years of his grand 
life were devoted to its formation and preservation. He fought as a youth with 
Braddock and in the capture of Fort Duquesne for the protection of the whole 
country. As Commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, his commission was 
from the Congress of the United Colonies. He inspired the movement for the Re- 
public, was the president and dominant spirit of the Convention which framed its 
Constitution, and its President for eight years, and guided its course until satisfied 
that moving safely along the broad highway of time, it would be surely ascending 
toward the first place among the nations of the world, the asylum of the oppressed, 
the home of the free. 

Do his countrymen exaggerate his virtues ? Listen to Guizot, the historian of 
civilization: "Washington did the two greatest things which in politics it is permitted 
to man to attempt. He maintained by peace the independence of his country which 
he conquered by war. He founded a free government in the name of the principles 
of order and by re-establishing their sway." Hear Lord Erskin, the most famous 
of English advocates: "You are the only being for whom I have an awful reve- 
rence." Remember the tribute of Charles James Fox, the greatest parliamentary 
orator who ever swayed the British House of Commons: "Illustrious man, before 
whom all borrowed greatness sinks into insignificance." Contemplate the character 
of Lord Brougham, pre-eminent for two generations in every department of human 
activity and thought, and then impress upon the memory of your children his de- 
liberate judgment: "Until time shall be no more will a test of the progress which 
our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the 
immortal name of Washington." 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 387 

Chatham, who, with Clive, conquered an Empire in the East, died broken- 
hearted at the loss of the Empire in the West, by follies which even his power and 
eloquence could not prevent. Pitt saw the vast creations of his diplomacy shattered 
at Austerlitz, and fell murmuring : " My country ! how I leave my country ! " Na- 
poleon caused a noble tribute to Washington to be read at the head of his armies, but 
unable to rise to Washington's greatness, witnessed the vast structure erected by 
conquest and cemented by blood, to minister to his own ambition and pride, crumble 
into fragments, and an exile and a prisoner he breathed his last babbling of battle- 
fields and carnage. Washington, with his finger upon his pulse, felt the presence 
of death, and calmly reviewing the past and forecasting the future, he answered to 
the summons of the grim messenger, " It is well," and as his mighty soul ascended 
to God the land was deluged with tears and the world united in his eulogy. Blot 
out from the page of history the names of all the great actors of his time in the 
drama of nations, and preserve the name of Washington and the century would be 
renowned. 

We stand to-day upon the dividing line between the first and second century of 
Constitutional Government. There are no clouds overhead and no convulsions 
under our feet. We reverently return thanks to Almighty God for the past, and 
with confident and hopeful promise march upon sure ground toward the future. The 
simple facts of these hundred years paralyze the imagination, and we contemplate 
the vast accumulations of the century with awe and pride. Our population has 
grown from four to sixty-five millions. Its centre, moving Westward 500 miles 
since 1789, is eloquent with the founding of cities and the birth of States. New 
settlements, clearing the forests and subduing the prairies, and adding four millions 
to the few thousands of farms which were the support of Washington's Republic, 
create one of the great granaries of the world, and open exhaustless reservoirs of 
National wealth. 

The infant industries, which the first act of our first Administration sought to 
encourage, now give remunerative employment to more people than inhabited the 
Republic at the beginning of Washington's Presidency. The grand total of their 
annual output of seven thousand millions of dollars in value places the United States 
first among the manufacturing countries of the earth. One-half the total mileage 
of all the railroads, and one-quarter of all the telegraph lines of the world within our 
borders, testify to the volume, variety and value of an internal commerce which 
makes these States, if need be, independent and self supporting. These hundred 
years of development under favoring political conditions have brought the sum of 
our National wealth to a figure which has passed the results of a thousand years for 
the Mother-land herself, otherwise the richest of modern empires. 

During this generation, a civil war of unequalled magnitude caused the ex- 
penditure and loss of eight thousand million of dollars, and killed 600,000 and per- 
manently disabled over a million young men, and yet the impetuous progress of the 
North and the marvellous industrial development of the new and free South have 
obliterated the evidences of destruction, and made the war a memory, and have 



3*8 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

stimulated production until our annual surplus nearly equals that of England, France 
and Germany combined. The teeming millions of Asia till the patient soil and work 
the shuttle and loom as their fathers have done for ages ; modern Europe has 
felt the influence and received the benefit of the incalculable multiplication of 
force by inventive genius since the Napoleonic wars ; and yet, only 269 years 
after the little band of Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, our people, numbering 
less than one-fifteenth of the inhabitants of the globe, do one-third of its mining, 
one-fourth of its manufacturing, one-fifth of its agriculture, and own one-sixth of 
its wealth. 

This realism of material prosperity, surpassing the wildest creations of the ro- 
mancers who have astonished and delighted mankind, would be full of danger for the 
present and menace for the future, if the virtue, intelligence, and independence of 
the people were not equal to the wise regulation of its uses and the stern prevention 
of its abuses. But following the growth and power of the great factors, whose 
aggregation of capital made possible the tremendous pace of the settlement of our 
National domain, the building of our great cities and the opening of the lines of 
communication which have unified our country and created our resources, have come 
National and State legislation and supervision. Twenty millions, a vast majority of 
our people of intelligent age, acknowledging the authority of their several churches, 
12,000,000 of children in the common schools, 345 universities and colleges for the 
higher education of men and 200 for women, 450 institutions of learning for science, 
law, medicine and theology, are the despair of the scoffer and the demagogue, and 
the firm support of civilization and liberty. 

Steam and electricity have changed the commerce not only, they have revolu- 
tionized also the governments of the world. They have given to the press its power, 
and brought all races and nationalities into touch and sympathy. They have tested 
and are trying the strength of all systems to stand the strain and conform to the con- 
ditions which follow the germinating influences of American Domocracy. At the 
time of the inauguration of Washington, seven royal families ruled as many king- 
doms in Italy, but six of them have seen their thrones overturned and their countries 
disappear from the map of Europe. Most of the kings, princes, dukes and mar- 
graves of Germany, who reigned despotically, and sold their soldiers for foreign 
service, have passed into history, and their heirs have neither prerogatives nor 
domain. Spain has gone through many violent changes and the permanency of her 
present government seems to depend upon the feeble life of an infant prince. 
France, our ancient friend, with repeated and bloody revolutions, has tried the 
■ rnmentof Bourbon and Convention, of Directory and Consulate, of Empire and 
Citizen King, of hereditary Sovereign and Republic, of Empire, and again Republic. 
The Hapsburg and Hohenzollern, after convulsions which have rocked the founda- 
tions of their thrones, have been compelled to concede constitutions to their people 
and to divide with them the arbitrary power wielded so autocratically and brilliantly 
by Maria Theresa and Frederick the Great. The royal will of George the Third 
could crowd the American Colonies into rebellion, and wage war upon them until 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 389 

they were lost to his Kingdom, but the authority of the crown has devolved upon 
Ministers who hold office subject to the approval of the representatives of the peo- 
ple and the equal powers of the House of Lords have been enlarged in the Commons, 
leaving to the Peers only the shadow of their ancient privileges. But to-day 
the American people, after all the dazzling developments of the century, are still 
happily living under the Government of Washington. The Constitution during all 
that period has been amended only upon the lines laid down in the original instru- 
ment, and in conformity with the recorded opinions of the Fathers. The first great 
addition was the incorporation of a Bill of Rights, and the last the embedding into 
the Constitution of the immortal principle of the Declaration of Independence — of 
the equality of all men before the law. No crisis has been too perilous for its powers, 
no evolution too rapid for its adaptation, and no expansion beyond its easy grasp and 
administration. It has assimilated diverse nationalities with warring traditions, 
customs, conditions and languages, imbued them with its spirit, and won their pas- 
sionate loyalty and love. 

The flower of the youth of the nations of Continental Europe are conscripted from 
productive industries and drilling in camps. Vast armies stand in battle array along 
the frontiers, and a Kaiser's whim or a Minister's mistake may precipitate the most 
destructive war of modern times. Both monarchical and republican governments 
are seeking safety in the repression and suppression of opposition and criticism. 
The volcanic forces of Democratic aspiration and socialistic revolt are rapidly 
increasing and threaten peace and security. We turn from these gathering 
storms to the British Isles and find their people in the throes of a political crisis 
involving the form and substance of their Government, and their statesmen far 
from confident that the enfranchised and unprepared masses will wisely use their 
power. 

But for us no army exhausts our resources nor consumes our youth. Our navy 
must needs increase in order that the protecting flag may follow the expanding 
commerce which is successfully to compete in all the markets of the world. The 
sun of our destiny is still rising, and its rays illumine vast territories as yet unoccu- 
pied and undeveloped, and which are to be the happy homes of millions of people. 
The questions which affect the powers of government and the expansion or limitation 
of the authority of the Federal Constitution are so completely settled, and so unani- 
mously approved, that our political divisions produce only the healthy antagonism of 
parties, which is necessary for the preservation of liberty. Our institutions furnish 
the full equipment of shield and spear for the battles of freedom; and absolute pro- 
tection against every danger which threatens the welfare of the people will always 
be found in the intelligence which appreciates their value, and the courage and 
morality with which their powers are exercised. The spirit of Washington fills the 
executive office. Presidents may not rise to the full measure of his greatness, but 
they must not fall below his standard of public duty and obligation. His life and 
character conscientiously studied and thoroughly understood by coming generations, 
will be for them a liberal education for private life and public station, for citizenship 



39° FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

and patriotism, for love and devotion to Union and Liberty. With their in- 
spiring past and splendid present, the people of these United States, heirs of 
a hundred years marvellously rich in al! which adds to the glory and great- 
ness of a nation, with an abiding trust in the stability and elasticity of their 
Constitution, and an abounding faith in themselves, hail the coming century with 
hope and joy. 



BENJAMIN HARRISON ON INDUSTRY AND ANARCHY. 



iR\OTHING is more fatal to the interest of labor than anarchy. A condition of 
■ ■ society in which law is supreme is for the poor man the only tolerable one. 
The law reinforces his weakness and makes him the peer of the strongest. It is his 
tower. If he forsakes or destroys it his folly or his fury delivers him a prey to the 
strong. In this land of universal suffrage, if he will be wise and moderate, no right 
legislation can tarry long. That which is just will not be denied. But fury and 
threats and force will not persuade. They provoke their like, and in this clash and 
strife all must suffer. One of the most distressing and alarming features of our time 
is the growing hostility between capital and labor. Those who should be friends 
have been drawing apart and glaring fiercely at each other. There is no real or 
necessary antagonism. Capital and labor must unite in every enterprise ; the part- 
nership ought to be a fair one, and the partners friendly. The demagogue is a 
potent factor of evil in the settlement of the labor question. His object is to use the 
laborer to advance a political ambition. He flatters him with professions of ardent 
friendship ; beguiles him into turning the stone for his axe-grinding, and when the 
edge is on sends him away without wages. If laboring men would appoint com- 
mittees to inquire into the personal history of these self-appointed champions they 
would not unlikely find that the noisiest of them do not pay their tailor or shoe- 
maker. Their mission is to array one class against another — to foment strife, and 
to live themselves without work. They talk largely of the producers, but never 
produce anything themselves except a riot, and then they are not at the front. 
Their doctrine is that every man who hires labor is an oppressor and a tyrant. 
That the first duty of every man who works is to hate the man who gives him 
work. 

The fruit of this sort of teaching is unrest and fear The true 

workingmen should shake off these vipers into the fire ; place themselves and 
all their protective organizations on the platform of the law, and while demand- 
ing their legal rights to the full proclaim their equal deference to the rights of 
others. From this platform their cry for help and sympathy will find the public 
ear. Let them think and work toward specific and legitimate reforms, for within 
the limits of constitutional restriction there is no legislation that will be denied 
them. ' 




VICTOR HUGO 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. 393 

PALMERSTON AGAINST CIVIL WAR. 



(^FHEN come we to the last remedy, — civil war. Some gentlemen say that, 
^ sooner or later, we must fight for it, and the sword must decide. They tell us 
that, if blood were but shed in Ireland, Catholic emancipation might be avoided. 
Sir, when honorable members shall be a little deeper read in this history of Ireland, 
they will find that in Ireland blood has been shed, — that in Ireland leaders have 
been seized, trials have been had, and punishments have been inflicted. They will 
find, indeed, almost every page of the history of Ireland darkened by bloodshed, by 
seizures, by trials, and by punishments. But what has been the effect of these 
measures ? They have, indeed, been successful in quelling the disturbances of the 
moment ; but they never have gone to their cause, and have only fixed deeper the 
poison barb that rankles in the heart of Ireland. Can one believe one's ears, when 
one hears respectable men talk so lightly — nay, almost so wishfully — of civil war ? 
Do they reflect what a countless multitude of ills those three short syllables con- 
tain ? It is well, indeed, for the gentlemen of England, who live secure under the 
protecting shadow of the law, whose slumbers have never been broken by the 
clashing of angry swords, whose harvests have never been trodden down by the 
conflicts of hostile feet, — it is well for them to talk of civil war, as if it were some 
holiday pastime, or some sport of children : 

" They jest at scars who never felt a wound." 

But, that gentleman, from unfortunate and ill-starred Ireland, who have seen with 
their own eyes, and heard with their own ears the miseries which civil war produces, 
—who have known, by their own experience, the barbarism, aye, the barbarity, 
which it engenders, — that such persons should look upon civil war as anything 
short of the last and greatest of national calamities, — is to me a matter of the 
deepest and most unmixed astonishment. I will grant, if you will, that the success 
of such a war with Ireland would be as signal and complete as would be its injustice; 
I will grant, if you will, that resistance would soon be extinguished with the lives 
of those who resisted ; I will grant, if you will, that the crimsoned banner of 
England would soon wave in undisputed supremacy, over the smoking ashes of their 
towns, and the blood-stained solitude of their fields. But I tell you that England 
herself never would permit the achievement of such a conquest ; England would 
reject, with disgust, laurels that were dyed in fraternal blood ; England would recoil 
with loathing and abhorrence, from the bare contemplation of so devilish a triumph ! 



MACAULAY ON PUBLIC OPINION. 



(fi\ T the present moment I can see only one question in the State, 
' * of Reform ; only two parties — the friends of the Bill, and its ene 



the Question 
lemies. No ob- 
servant and unprejudiced man can look forward, without great alarm, to the effects 
which the recent decision of the Lords may possibly produce. I do not predict, I do 
not expect, open, armed insurrection. What I apprehend is this — that the people 



394 FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

may engage in a silent but extensive and persevering war against the law. It is 
easy to say, "Be bold ; be firm ; defy intimidation ; let the law have its course; the 
law is strong enough to put down the sedition." Sir, we have heard this blustering 
before, and we know in what it ended. It is the blustering of little men, whose lot 
has fallen on a great crisis. Xerxes scourging the waves, Canute commanding the 
waves to recede from his footstool, were but types of the folly. The law has no 
eyes ; the law has no hands ; the law is nothing — nothing but a piece of paper printed 
by the King's printer, with the King's arms at the top — till public opinion breathes 
the breath of life into the dead letter. We found this in Ireland. The elections of 
1826 — the Clare elections, two years later — proved the folly of those who think that 
Nations are governed by wax and parchment; and, at length, in the close of 1828, 
the Government had only one plain alternative before it — concession or civil war. 

I know only two ways in which societies can permanently be governed — by 
Public Opinion, and by the Sword. A government having at its command the 
armies, the fleets, and the revenues of Great Britain, might possibly hold Ireland by 
the sword. So Oliver Cromwell held Ireland; so William the Third held it; so Mr. 
Pitt held it; so the Duke of Wellington might perhaps ha-ve held it. But to gov- 
ern Great Britain by the sword — so wild a thought has never, I will venture to say, 
occurred to any public man of any party ; and, if any man were frantic enough to 
make the attempt, he would find, before three days had expired that there is no 
better sword than that which is fashioned out of a ploughshare ! But, if not by the 
sword, how are the people to be governed ? I understand how the peace is kept at 
New York. It is by the assent and support of the people. I understand, also, how 
the peace is kept at Milan. It is by the bayonets of the Austrian soldiers. But how 
the peace is to be kept when you have neither the popular assent nor the military 
force, — how the peace is to be kept in England by a Government acting upon the 
principles of the present Opposition, — I do not understand. 

Sir, we read that, in old times, when the villeins were driven to revolt by 
oppression, — when the castles of the nobility were burned to the ground, — when 
the warehouses of London were pillaged, — when a hundred thousand insurgents 
appeared in arms on Blackheath, — when a foul murder, perpetrated in their presence, 
had raised their passions to madness, — when they were looking for some captain to 
succeed and avenge him whom they had lost, — just then, before Hob Miller, or Tom 
Carter, or Jack Straw, could place himself at their head, the King rode up to them, 
and exclaimed, "I will be your leader ! " — And, at once, the infuriated multitude 
laid down their arms, submitted to his guidance, dispersed at his command. Herein 
let us imitate him. Let us say to the people, " We are your leaders, — we your own 
House of Commons. " This tone it is our interest and our duty to take. The cir- 
cumstances admit of no delay. Even while I speak, the moments are passing away, 
— the irrevocable moments pregnant with the destiny of a great people. The coun- 
try is in danger; it may be saved: we can save it. This is the way — this is the 
time. In our hands are the issues of great good and great evil — the issues of the 
life and death of the State ! 



FAMOUS ORATIONS. .1)5 

NAYLOR ON AMERICAN LABORERS. 



((3)~HE Gentleman, Sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern 
^ institutions. He is ignorant of Northern character. He has forgotten the 
history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers! Who are 
the Northern laborers ! The history of your country is their history. The renown 
of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its 
every page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of Northern laborers, 
and the history of your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was he 
that disarmed the Thunderer; wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove; calmed 
the troubled ocean ; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, 
shedding his brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized world; whom the 
great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor; who participated in the achieve- 
ment of your independence, prominently assisted in moulding your free institutions, 
and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of 
"recorded time"? Who, Sir, I ask, was he? A Northern laborer, — a Yankee 
tallow-chandler's son, — a printer's runaway boy. 

And who, let me ask the honorable Gentleman, who was he that, in the days 
of our Revolution, led forth a Northern army, — yes, an army of Northern laborers, 
— and aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defence against British aggres- 
sion, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and redeemed her fair fields from foreign 
invaders? Who was he? A Northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith, — the 
gallant General Greene, — who left his hammer and his forge, and went forth 
conquering and to conquer in the battle for our independence ! And will you preach 
insurrection to men like these ? 

Sir, our country is full of the achievements of Northern laborers! Where is 
Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker 
Hill, but in the North ? And what, Sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the 
never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the blood and the struggles, the 
high daring, and patriotism, and sublime courage, of Northern laborers ? The whole 
North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelligence, and 
indomitable independence of Northern laborers ! Go, Sir, go preach insurrection 
to men like these ! 

HAMILTON ON THE CONSTITUTION. 



(SOFTER all our doubts, our suspicions and speculations, on the subject of Gov- 
* * ernment, we must return, at last, to this important truth, — that, when we 
have formed a Constitution upon free principles, when we have given a proper 
balance to the different branches of Administration, and fixed Representation upon 
pure and equal principles, we may, with safety, furnish it with all the powers nec- 
essary to answer, in the most ample manner, the purposes of Government. The 
great desiderata are a free Representation, and mutual checks. When these are 
obtained, all our apprehensions of the extent of powers are unjust and imaginary 



'?* FAMOUS ORATIONS. 

What, then, is the structure of this Constitution ? One branch of the Legislature 
is to be elected by the People — by the same People who choose your State Repre- 
sentatives. Its members are to hold their office two years, and then return to their 
constituents. Here, Sir, the People govern. Here they act by their immediate 
Representatives. You have also a Senate, constituted by your State Legislatures, 
— by men in whom you place the highest confidence, — and forming another Repre- 
sentative branch. Then, again, you have an Executive Magistrate, created by a 
form of election which merits universal admiration. 

In the form of this Government, and in the mode of Legislation, you find all 
the checks which the greatest politicians and the best writers have ever conceived. 
What more can reasonable men desire? Is there any one branch in which the 
whole Legislative and Executive powers are lodged? No! The Legislative au- 
thority is lodged in three distinct branches, properly balanced ; the Executive 
authority is divided between two branches; and the Judicial is still reserved for an 
independent body, who hold their office during good behavior. This organization is 
so complex, so skilfully contrived, that it is next to impossible that an impolitic or 
wicked measure should pass the great scrutiny with success. Now, what do Gen- 
tlemen mean, by coming forward and declaiming against this Government? Why 
do they say we ought to limit its powers, to disable it, and to destroy its capacity 
of blessing the People? Has philosophy suggested, has experience taught, that 
such a Government ought not to be trusted with everything necessary for the good 
of society? Sir, when you have divided and nicely balanced the departments of 
Government; when you have strongly connected the virtue of your rulers with 
their interests; when, in short, you have rendered your system as perfect as human 
forms can be, — you must place confidence ; you must give power. 









BOOK VIL 



FICTION. 






i 




UNCLE TOM 



Book VII. 
Fiction. 



UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 

By Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



eliza's escape— across the river to freedom— the baffled trader— fighting 

for freedom— evangeline— tom's new master— topsy— the little 

evangelist— death of eva— death of st. clare— in the 

Slave Market— Cassy— The Death of Tom— 

Emmeline's Escape. 




(ATE in the afternoon of a chilly 
day in February, two gentle- 
men were sitting alone over 
their wine, in a well-furnished dining 
parlor, in the town of P , in Ken- 
tucky. One was a vulgar swaggerer, a 
slave-dealer, named Haley ; the other a 
refined gentleman, the owner of the 
house, named Shelby. They were dis- 
cussing the sale of one of the latter's 
slaves, one Tom, to the dealer, and 
Haley, demurring at the price asked, 
urged that a bright little negro boy, 
named Harry, be "thrown in to boot." 
Mr. Shelby hesitated, but being in busi- 
ness straits was at last compelled to 
yield, and the bargain was made. 

" Wal, now, the thing's done!" said 
the trader, getting up. 

'.'Its' done!" said Mr. Shelby, in a 
musing tone ; and, fetching a long breath, 
he repeated, '*It's done." 

Of this unholy bargain Eliza, the young 



mother of Harry, had been an unsus- 
pected witness. Her husband, George 
Harris, had already run away from his 
master to escape ill-treatment, and was 
now a fugitive, on his way to Canada. 
She quickly determined to follow him 
with the child. Late at night, a winter's 
night, she set out on her perilous journey. 

All night, and the next day, she strug- 
gled on, and then, an hour before sunset, 
she reached the Ohio river, weary and 
foot-sore, but still strong in heart. The 
river was swollen and turbulent; great 
cakes of floating ice were swinging heav- 
ily to and fro in the turbid waters, filling 
up the whole river, and extending almost 
to the Kentucky shore. 

Eliza stood, for a moment, contempla- 
ting this unfavorable aspect of things, 
which she saw at once must prevent the 
usual ferry-boat from running, and then 
turned into a small public house on the 
bank, to make a few inquiries. 



399 



400 



FICTION. 



"Isn't there any ferry or boat, that 

takes people over to B , now ? " she 

said. 

11 No, indeed ! " said the woman ; "the 
boats have stopped running." 

There was nothing to do, then, but to 
wait till the next day. But scarcely had 
Eliza entered a private room of the house 
and laid the child down to sleep, than 
she saw the trader, Haley, approach, in 
pursuit of her. 

A thousand lives seemed to be concen- 
trated in that one moment to Eliza. Her 
room opened by a side door to the river. 
She caught her child, and sprang down 
the steps toward it. The trader caught 
a full glimpse of her, just as she was dis- 
appearing down the bank ; and throwing 
himself from his horse, he was after her 
like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy 
moment her feet to her scarce seemed to 
touch the ground and a moment brought 
her to the water's edge. Right on be- 
hind they came ; and, nerved with 
strength such as God gives only to the 
desperate, with one wild cry and flying 
leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid 
current by the shore on to the raft of ice 
beyond. It was a desperate leap — im- 
possible to anything but madness and 
despair ; and Haley and his companions 
instinctively cried out, and lifted up their 
hands, as she did it. 

The huge green fragment of ice on 
which she alighted pitched and creaked 
as her weight came on it, but she stayed 
there not a moment. With wild cries 
and desperate energy she leaped to an- 
other and still another cake ; stumbling 
— leaping — slipping — springing upward 
again ! Her shoes are gone — her stock- 
ings cut from her feet — while blood 
marked every step ; but she saw noth- 



ing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a 
dream, she saw the Ohio side. 

Haley returned to the tavern, furious 
at his defeat. There he presently met 
two men, Loker, a burly ruffian, and 
Marks, a sly, foxy lawer, who made a 
business of hunting fugitive slaves, and 
entered into a bargain with them for the 
pursuit and recapture of Eliza and her 
child. Then he returned to Mr. Shelby's 
to claim " Uncle " Tom, as his chief pur- 
chase was called. He put fetters upon 
him, to make sure against his escaping, 
and took him away from his life-long 
home for shipment to New Orleans. 

Meantime Eliza and her boy were in 
the safe retreat of a Quaker village in 
Ohio, watching an opportunity to go on 
to Canada. There, after a time, to her 
unspeakable joy, her husband joined her, 
and then preparations were made to send 
them all on together to the next station 
on the famous "underground railroad" 
which led from the land of slavery to the 
land of freedom. They set out at last, 
when the slave-hunters were already 
prowling about close upon their trail. 
They were in a wagon, with another 
runaway, Jim, and George's mother, es- 
corted by Phineas Fletcher, a Quaker of 
a rather more militant disposition than is 
usual among Friends. After driving for 
miles across a sparsely settled country, 
they heard their pursuers, on horseback, 
close behind. Phineas lashed the horses 
to a run. The wagon rattled, jumped, 
almost flew, over the frozen ground ; but 
plainer, and still plainer, came the noise 
of pursuing horsemen behind. The 
women heard it, and looking anxiously 
out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of 
a distant hill, a party of men looming up 
against the red-streaked sky of early 



FICTION. 



401 



dawn. The pursuers gained on them 
fast ; the wagon made a sudden turn, 
and brought them near a ledge of a steep 
overhanging rock, that rose in an isolated 
ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, 
all around it, quite clear and smooth. 
This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose 
up black and heavy against the bright- 
ening sky, and seemed to promise shelter 
and concealment. It was a place well 
known to Phineas, who had been familiar 
with the spot in his hunting days ; and it 
was to gain this point he had been racing 
his horses. 

A quick halt, a desperate scramble up 
the rocks, and the fortress was gained 
just in time. They were on top of a high 
rock, to which their pursuers could gain 
access only in single file. Then up came 
the hunters — Loker and Marks, two con- 
stables, and a posse of tavern rowdies. 
George challenged them, and warned 
them that they would be shot if they 
tried to scale the rock. While he spoke, 
Marks shot at him, but missed. Then 
Loker started to climb up, loudly avow- 
ing he " never was afraid of niggers." 
As he came near to the edge of a chasm 
that separated this rock from another, 
George fired — the shot entered his side 
— but, though wounded, he would not 
retreat, but, with a yell like that of a 
mad bull, he was leaping right across the 
chasm into the party. 

" Friend," said Phineas, suddenly 
stepping to the front, and meeting him 
with a push from his long arms, "thee 
isn't wanted here." 

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling 
down among trees, bushes, logs, loose 
stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning, 
thirty feet below. 

"Lord help us, they are perfect devils!" 



said Marks, heading the retreat down the 
rocks with much more of a will than he 
had joined the ascent, while all the party 
came tumbling precipitately after him. 

11 I say fellers," said Marks, "you jist 
go around and pick up Tom, there, while 
I run and get on to my horse, to go back 
for help — that's you ; " and, without 
minding the hootings and jeers of his com- 
pany, Marks was as good as his word, 
and was soon seen galloping away. 

The others found Loker, wounded but 
not fatally, but presently abandoned him 
and rode away. Then the fugitives and 
Phineas went down and cared for him 
and took him to a place where he would 
be nursed, and then pursued their way 
toward freedom in safety. 

Meantime Uncle Tom was being borne 
toward New Orleans on a Mississippi 
steamer. 

Among the passengers on the boat was 
a young gentleman of fortune and family, 
resident in New Orleans, who bore the 
name of St. Clare. He had with him a 
daughter between five and six years of 
age, together with a lady who seemed to 
claim relationship to both, and to have 
the little one especially under her charge. 

Tom often caught glimpses of this little 
girl. Often and often she walked mourn- 
fully around the place where Haley's 
gang of men and women sat in their 
chains. She would glide in among them, 
and look at them with an air of perplexed 
and sorrowful earnestness ; and some- 
times she would lift their chains with her 
slender hands, and then sigh wofully, as 
she glided away. Several times she ap- 
peared suddenly among them, with her 
hands full of candy, nuts, and oranges, 
which she would distribute joyfully to 
them, and then be gone again. 



402 



FICTION. 



" What's little missy's name ? " said 
Tom, at last, when he thought matters 
were ripe to push such an inquiry. 

" Evangeline St. Clare," said the little 
one, "though papa and everybody else 
call me Eva. Now, what's your name? " 

"My name is Tom ; the little children 
used to call me Uncle Tom, way back 
thar in Kentuck." 

" Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, 
because, you see, 1 like you," said Eva. 
"So Uncle Tom, where are you going? " 

"1 don't know, Miss Eva." 

" Don't know ? " said Eva. 

" No. I am going to be sold to some- 
body, i don't know who." 

"My papa can buy you," said Eva, 
quickly ; " and if he buys you, you will 
have good times. I mean to ask him to, 
this very day." 

"Thank you, my little lady," said 
Tom. 

The boat here stopped at a small land- 
ing to take on wood, and Eva, hearing 
her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. 
Tom rose up, and went forward to offer 
his service in wooding, and soon was 
busy among the hands. 

Eva and her father were standing to- 
gether by the railings, when, by some 
sudden movement, the little one sud- 
denly lost her balance, and fell sheer 
over the side of the boat' into the water. 
Her father, scarce knowing what he did, 
was plunging in after her, but was held 
back by some behind him, who saw 
that more efficient aid had followed his 
child. 

Tom was standing just under her on 
the lower deck, as she fell. He saw her 
strike the water, and sink, and was after 
her in a moment. A broad-chested, 
strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for 



him to keep afloat in the water, till, in a 
moment or two, the child rose to the 
surface, and he caught her in his arms, 
and swimming with her to the boat-side, 
handed her up, all dripping, to the grasp 
of hundreds of hands, which, as if they 
had all belonged to one man, were 
stretched eagerly out to receive her. A 
few moments more, and her father bore 
her, dripping and senseless, to the ladies' 
cabin. 

When the boat reached New Orleans, 
Eva coaxed her father to buy Tom, and 
that light-hearted and genial young man 
did so. Augustine St. Clare was a rich 
and high-bred Louisianian, who had been 
sorely disappointed in love, and then had 
married a fashionable but frivolous and 
selfish woman, who, since Eva's birth, 
had become a peevish invalid. On the 
present occasion St. Clare was returning 
with Eva from a visit to Vermont, and 
bringing with him his cousin, Ophelia ; 
a precise New Englander, who disap- 
proved of slavery on principle, but dis- 
liked all personal contact with negroes. 
The family lived in a splendid mansion in 
New Orleans, and thither they now 
went, taking Tom with them, and there 
Tom lived and served faithfully, and was 
kindly treated. 

Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome 
young master with an odd mixture of 
fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. 
That he never read the Bible ; never went 
to church; that he jested and made free 
with any and everything that came in 
the way of his wit; that he spent his 
Sunday evenings at the opera or theater ; 
that he went to wine parties, and clubs, 
and suppers, oftener than was at all ex- 
pedient, were all things that Tom could 
see as plainly as anybody, and on which 




w 

u 
'/J 

w 

CO 

I— I 

w 



FICTION. 



405 



he based a conviction that " mas'r wasn't 
a Christian." 

So Tom took it upon himself to speak 
of religious matters to St. Clare, and his 
unaffected simplicity and earnestness 
produced a profound impression upon the 
worldly but good-hearted man. 

One day, Miss Ophelia having ex- 
pressed a desire to educate and cultivate 
one of the negroes, St. Clare brought 
her a wild little creature named Topsy, 
whom Miss Ophelia at once took in hand 
and began to question. 

''How old are you, Topsy?" 

"Dun no, missus," said the image, 
with a grin that showed all her teeth. 

" Don't know how old you are ? Didn't 
anybody ever tell you ? Who was your 
mother ? " 

"Never had none!" said the child, 
with another grin. 

"Never had any mother? What do 
you mean ? Where were you born ? " 

"Never was born!" persisted Topsy, 
with another grin, that looked so goblin- 
like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all 
nervous, she might have fancied that 
she had got hold of some sooty gnome 
from the land of Diablerie, but Miss 
Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and 
business-like, and she said with some 
sternness: 

"You musn't answer me in that way, 
child; I'm not playing with you. Tell 
me where you were born, and who your 
father and mother were." 

"Never was born, "reiterated the crea- 
ture, more emphatically; "never had no 
father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was 
raised by a speculator, with lots of others. 
Old Aunt Sue used to take car on us." 

"Have you ever heard anything about 
God, Topsy ? " 



The child looked bewildered, but grin- 
ned as usual. 

" Do you know who made you ? " 

"Nobody, as I knows on," said the 
child, with a short laugh. 

The idea appeared to amuse her con- 
siderably ; for her eyes twinkled, and she 
added : 

"I s'pect 1 grow'd. Don't think no- 
body never made me." 

Miss Ophelia rose from this encour- 
aging colloquy; St. Clare was leaning 
over the back of her chair. 

"You'll find virgin soil there, cousin; 
put in your own ideas — you won't find 
many to pull up." 

Eva's health, always delicate, at last 
began to fail, and it was evident that her 
end was near. To the last she played 
the part of a ministering angel among the 
slaves of the household. One day she 
had them all called to her bedside. All 
looked sad and apprehensive. Many of 
the women hid their faces in their aprons. 

" I sent for you all, my dear friends," 
said Eva, " because I love you. I love 
you all ; and I have something to say to 
you, which 1 want you always to remem- 
ber. ... 1 am going to leave you. I 
want to speak to you about your souls. 
. . . Many of you, I am afraid, are very 
careless. You are thinking only about 
this world. I want you to remember that 
there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. 
I am going there, and you can go there. 
It is for you, as much as me. But, if you 
want to go there, you must not live idle, 
careless, thoughtless lives. You must be 
Christians. You must remember that 
each one of you can become angels, and 
be angels forever. ... If you want 
to be Christians, Jesus will help you. 
You must pray to him ; you must read — " 



406 



FICTION. 



The child checked herself, looked pite- 
ously at them, and said, sorrowfully : 

" O, dear! you can't read — poor 
souls : " and she hid her face in the pillow 
and sobbed, while many a smothered 
sob from those she was addressing, who 
were kneeling on the floor, aroused her. 

"Never mind," she said, raising her 
face and smiling brightly through her 
tears, "I have prayed for you; and I 
know Jesus will help you, even if you 
can't read. Try all to do the best you 
can ; pray every day ; ask Him to help 
you, and get the Bible read to you when- 
ever you can ; and I think I shall see you 
all in heaven." 

Not many days later the end came. 
It was between midnight and morning. 
The changed look on her face showed St. 
Clare that she was dying. The house 
was soon roused, the lights were seen, 
footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged 
the veranda, and looked tearfully through 
the glass doors ; but St. Clare heard and 
said nothing, he saw only that look on the 
face of the little sleeper. 

The large blue eyes unclosed, a smile 
passed over her face ; she tried to raise 
her head, and to speak. 

" Do you know me, Eva ? " 

" Dear papa," said the child, with a 
last effort, throwing her arms about his 
neck. In a moment they dropped again ; 
and, as St. Clare raised his head, he saw 
a spasm of mortal agony pass over the 
face, she struggled for breath, and threw 
up her little hands. 

Tom had his master's hands between 
his own ; and, with tears streaming down 
his dark cheeks, looked up for help where 
he had always been used to look. 

"Pray that this may be cut short!" 
said St. Clare — " this wrings my heart." 



" O, bless the Lord! it's over — it's 
over, dear master," said Tom ; " look at 
her." 

The child lay panting on her pillows, 
as one exhausted — the large clear eyes 
rolled up and fixed. 

" Eva," said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

"O, Eva, tell us what you see ! What 
is it ? " said her father. 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over 
her face, and she said, brokenly — " O ! 
love — joy — peace!" gave one sigh and 
passed from death unto life ! 

It was not long after the death of Eva 
that St. Clare himself came to his end. 
In a cafe one evening two men quarreled 
and began to fight. St. Clare joined 
with others in trying to separate them, 
and was stabbed by one of them, and 
taken home to die. Miss Ophelia and 
Tom attended him in his last moments. 
He lay with his eyes shut, but it was 
evident that he wrestled with bitter 
thoughts. After a while, he laid his 
hand on Tom's who was kneeling beside 
him, and said, " Tom ! poor fellow ! " 

" What, mas'r? " said Tom, earnestly. 

"I am dying ! " said St. Clare, press- 
ing his hand ; " pray ! " 

"If you would like a clergyman — " 
said the physician. 

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and 
said again to Tom, more earnestly, 
" Pray!" 

And Tom did pray, with all his mind 
and strength. 

When Tom ceased, St. Clare reached 
out and took his hand, looking earnestly 
at him, but saying nothing. He closed 
his eyes, but still retained his hold. He 
murmured softly to himself, at broken 
intervals. 



FICTION. 



407 



"His mind is wandering," said the 
doctor. 

"No! it is coming HOME, at last!" 
said St. Clare, energetically; "at last! 
at last!" 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. 
The sinking paleness of death fell on 
him ; but with it there fell, as if shed 
from the wings of some pitying spirit, 
a beautiful expression of peace, like that 
of a wearied child who sleeps. 

St. Clare's slaves were presently all 
sent to the slave market, to be sold. 
Among the men who came to buy, at public 
auction, wasone repulsive-looking fellow, 
of coarse appearance and brutal manner. 
He examined Tom as though he were a 
horse, or an ox, was pleased with him, 
bid for him, and purchased him, together 
with several other slaves. This was 
Simon Legree, a Red River planter, and 
he at once set out for his home, taking 
his purchases with him. 

Legree's plantation was a forbidding 
place. The house was large and had 
been handsome, but now looked desolate. 
Three or four ferocious-looking dogs, 
roused by the sound of the wagon- 
wheels, came tearing out, and were with 
difficulty restrained from laying hold of 
Tom and his companions, by the effort 
of the ragged servants who came after 
them. 

" Ye see what ye'd get ! " said Legree, 
caressing the dogs with grim satisfaction, 
and turning to Tom and his companions. 
" Ye see what ye'd get if ye try to run 
off. These yer dogs has been raised to 
track niggers ; and they'd jest as soon 
chaw one on ye up as eat their supper. 
So, mind yourself ! How now, Sambo ! " 
he said, to a ragged fellow, without any 
brim to his hat, who was officious in his 



attentions. " How have things been 
going? " 

" Fust rate, mas'r." 

"Quimbo," said Legree to another, 
who was making zealous demonstrations 
to attract his attention, "ye minded 
what I telled ye? " 

"Guess I did, didn't I? " 

The two colored men were the two 
principal hands on the plantation. Le- 
gree had trained them in savageness and 
brutality as systematically as he had 
his bull-dogs ; and, by long practice in 
hardness and cruelty, brought their whole 
nature to about the same range of capa- 
cities. 

In this hideous place the hapless slaves 
were treated worse than brute beasts. 
Legree showered upon them all possible 
injustice and cruelty. One day, meaning 
to degrade Tom to his own level, he com- 
manded him to flog one of the other 
slaves, a frail, feeble woman. Tom 
respectfully but positively refused, 
whereupon Legree had him flogged half 
to death by Sambo and Quimbo. That 
night Tom was visited by one of his 
fellow-slaves, a woman named Cassy. 
She was a quadroon, who had been sin- 
gularly beautiful, refined, and highly 
educated. Dragged from the man she 
loved, and made the property of Legree, 
she had been forced to become his mis- 
tress. She had gained a powerful in- 
fluence over him, so that he stood in 
mortal fear of her ; but now he was 
trying to cast her aside and replace her 
with one Emmeline, a beautiful young 
woman whom he had purchased in New 
Orleans, and brought home in the same 
party with Tom. She told Tom all her 
tragic story, and ended thus: 

"When 1 was a girl, 1 thought I was 



4o8 



FICTION. 



religious ; I used to love God and prayer. 
Now I'm a lost soul, pursued by devils 
that torment me day and night; they 
keep pushing me on and on — and I'll do 
it, too, some of these days!" she said, 
clinching her hand, while an insane 
light glanced in her heavy black eyes. 
"I'll send him where he belongs — a 
short way, too — one of these nights, if 
they burn me alive for it ! " 

There was a great garret in the top of 
Legree's house, in which he had once 
brutally murdered a slave-woman who 
would not obey his foul will, and which 
he, in his ignorant superstition, now re- 
garded as haunted, and so shunned with 
mortal fear. Cassy played upon his 
fears, with tales of ghosts, until she 
knew he would never dare to enter the 
garret. Then she hid Emmeline and 
herself up there, to be safe from his per- 
secutions. She first gave Legree reason 
to suppose they had fled to the woods, 
and he pursued them with bloodhounds, 
but had to return, baffled. 

Legree then turned his wrath against 
Tom. After reviling and abusing him in 
all possible ways, he announced his de- 
termination to kill him, and accordingly 
he had him flogged to death. Tom did 
not die directly under the lash, but lin- 
gered a few days longer. During that 
time an unexpected visitor came. This 
was George Shelby, the son of Tom's 
old master in Kentucky. He had come 
in search of the faithful old servant, to 
purchase him and take him home to 
Kentucky. He found Tom dying in 
awful agony. But Tom recognized him, 
and the vacant eye became fixed and 
brightened, the whole face lighted up, 
the hard hands clasped, and tears ran 
down the cheeks. 



"Bless the Lord! it is — it is — it's all 
I wanted ! They haven't forgot me. It 
warms my soul ; it does my old heart 
good! Now I shall die content! Bless 
the Lord, oh my soul ! " 

Then the end came. 

George turned to Legree, who stood 
near, scowling, and said, pointing to the 
dead, "You have got all you ever can 
of him. What shall I pay you for the 
body ? I will take it away, and bury it 
decently. 

"I don't sell dead niggers, "said Legree, 
doggedly. "You are welcome to bury 
him where and when you like." 

A few more contemptuous words 
spoken by Legree roused the young 
Kentuckian's wrath, and with one well- 
directed blow he knocked the brute 
down. Then he bore Tom's body rev- 
erently away and gave it honorable 
burial. 

Legree now felt the place worse 
haunted than before, and in his abject 
fear took to drinking heavily, and was 
soon known to be sick and dying. The 
inexorable Cassy arrayed herself as a 
ghost, came down from the garret at 
night, and tormented his dying hours. 
Then she and Emmeline slipped out of 
the house and stole away from the 
accursed place. Cassy was arrayed as 
a Spanish Creole, and Emmeline as her 
servant. Thus they took passage on a 
river steamer and made their way to the 
North. George Shelby was on the same 
boat, and on the way the discovery was 
made that the runaway Eliza was Cassy 's 
long-lost daughter. So Cassy made her 
way to Canada, and there succeeded in 
finding Eliza and George, who were liv- 
ing in peace, freedom and happiness. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



By Charles Dickens, 



The Visit to Yarmouth—* 4 Barkis is willin' "—School and Schoolmates— Barkis 
Waiting— a Great Change— my Aunt Makes up Her Mind— Early loves— 
J. Steerforth — My Profession— "Wickfield and Heep"— Dora- 
Out WITH THE TlDE-A GREATER LOSS— BETSEY TROTWOOD'S 
STORY — MR. SPENLOW — HOUSE-KEEPING EXTRAORDIN- 
ARY— MY Child-Wife — Little Em'ly again — 

THE HOME-COMING — HEEP- DEATH 
OF DORA— CLOSING SCENES. 




3 MY early life little needs to be 
said. I was born at Blunder- 
stone, in Suffolk, six months 
after the death of my father. My mother 
was yet a mere girl. The only other 
relative of whom I need speak was an 
aunt of my father's, Miss Betsey Trot- 
wood. My father had once been a 
favorite of hers, but, she was mortally 
affronted by his marriage on the ground 
that my mother was " a wax doll." She 
had never seen my mother, but she knew 
her to be not yet twenty. My father and 
Miss Betsey never met again. She visited 
my mother at the time of my birth ; and, 
being a man-hater, was grievously dis- 
appointed when I proved to be not a girl 
but a boy. She vanished like a discon- 
tented fairy, or like one of those super- 
natural beings, whom it was popularly 
supposed I was entitled to see ; and 
never came back any more. 

The first objects that assume a distinct 
presence before me, as I look far back 
into the blank of my infancy, are my 



mother with her pretty hair and youthful 
shape, and Peggotty, our servant and 
my nurse. Then a gentleman with black 
whiskers, a Mr. Murdstone, began to call 
to see my mother, and aroused my child- 
ish suspicion and dislike. 

One evening Peggotty asked me how 
1 would like to go with her and visit her 
brother at Yarmouth, and gave me so 
pleasant an account of the place that I 
said I should like to go. So go I did, and 
made the acquaintance of Mr. Peggotty, 
and his orphan nephew and niece, Ham 
and Em'ly, and also Mrs. Gummidge, the 
widow of his former partner in a fishing- 
boat. 

Of course I was in love with little 
Em'ly. 1 am sure I loved that baby quite 
as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater 
purity, and more disinterestedness, than 
can enter into the best love of a later 
time of life, high and ennobling as it is. 
We were the admiration of Mrs. Gum- 
midge and Peggotty, who used to whisper 
of an evening when we sat, lovingly, on 



409 



4io 



FICTION. 



our little locker side by side, " Lor' ! 
wasn't it beautiful ! " Mr. Peggotty 
smiled at us from behind his pipe, and 
Ham grinned all the evening and did 
nothing else. 

The visit ended at last, and 1 returned 
home to find my mother married to Mr. 
Murdstone, who, with his sister, soon 
began to tyrannize over her and to ill- 
treat and abuse me. It was a relief to 
me, after several violent scenes, when 
they decided to send me away to school. 

The carrier, in whose wagon I travelled 
on the first stage of my journey, was 
named Barkis. Soon after we had started 
I gave him one of the cakes with which 
I had been provided. He swallowed it 
at a gulp. 

"Did she make 'em, now ? " said Mr. 
Barkis. 

" Peggotty, do you mean, sir ? " 

"Ah!" said Mr. Barkis. "Her." 

"Yes. She makes all our pastry, and 
does all our cooking." 

" Well. I'll tell you what," said Mr. 
Barkis. "P'rhaps you might be writin' 
to her?" 

"I shall certainly write to her," 1 re- 
joined. 

"Ah ! " he said slowly, turning hiseyes 
toward me. "Well! If you was writin' 
to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that 
Barkis was willin' ; would you ? " 

"That Barkis is willing," 1 repeated 
innocently. "Is that all the message? " 

" Ye-es," he said, considering. " Ye-s. 
Barkis is willin'." "But you will be 
at Blunderstone again to-morrow, Mr. 
Barkis," 1 said, faltering a little at the 
idea of my being far away from it then, 
"and could give your own message so 
much better." 



As he repudiated this suggestion, how- 
ever, with a jerk of his head, and once 
more confirmed his previous request by 
saying with profound gravity, " Barkis is 
willin'. That's the message," I readily 
undertook its transmission. 

At the school, Salem House, I found 
myself treated with suspicion, because 
of the bad account of me Mr. Murd- 
stone had given. But I made two close 
friends. One was Tommy Traddles, a 
good-hearted, honorable boy, who was 
lacking in self-assertion and forever get- 
ing punished for some other's fault. The 
other was James Steerforth, a brilliant, 
self-assertive fellow, who exercised a 
profound fascination over me, and con- 
stituted himself in a measure my "guide, 
philosopher and friend." There was an 
ease in his manner — a gay and light 
manner it was, but not swaggering — 
which 1 still believe to have borne a 
kind of enchantment with it. 

When holiday time came I travelled 
home with Barkis again, and told him 1 
had sent his message to Peggotty. He 
seemed gruff. 

"When a man says he's willin'," said 
Mr. Barkis, turning his glance slowly on 
me again, " it's as much as to say that 
man's a-waitin' for a answer." 

" Have you told her so, Mr. Barkis ? " 

11 N-no," growled Mr. Barkis, reflecting 
about it. " I aint got no call to go and 
tell her so. I never said six words to 
her myself. / aint a-goin' to tell her so." 

"Would you like me to do it, Mr. Bar- 
kis ? " said I doubtfully. 

" You might tell her if you would, "said 
Mr. Barkis, with another slow look at 
me, that Barkis was a-waitin' for a 
answer. Says you, 'Peggotty! Barkis 
is a-waitin' for a answer.' Says she, 



FICTION. 



411 



perhaps, 'Answer to what ? ' Says you, 
1 To what I told you.' ' What is that ? ' 
says she. ' Barkis is willin',' says 
you. " 

The next great event was the sudden 
ending of my school life at Salem House 
by the death of my mother. I was taken 
home, and ill-treated again by the Murd- 
stones. Then I went to visit my friends 
at Yarmouth, and on that occasion Mr. 
Barkis's strange courtship culminated in 
his marriage with Peggotty. At last Mr. 
Murdstone sent me to London, to work 
as a drudge in his wine-warehouse. 
There I was put to board with a Mr. and 
Mrs. Micawber. Of Mr. Micawber I may 
say that he was singularly pompous and 
ceremonious in manner, and that he 
was hopelessly in debt to all manner of 
tradesmen, who besieged his house day 
and night. At last his "difficulties," as 
Mrs. Micawber called them, came to a 
crisis, and he was lodged in the debtors' 
prison. In time he was released, and 
then announced his intention of going 
away from London. I asked Mrs. Micaw- 
ber if she would go too. She replied : 
" I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. 
Micawber may have concealed his diffi- 
culties from me in the first instance, but 
his sanguine temper may have led him to 
expect that he would overcome them. 
But I never will desert Mr. Micawber. 
No ! " cried Mrs. Micawber, more affected 
than before, " I never will do it ! It's of 
no use asking me ! " 

Sick at heart of the dog's life I was 
compelled to lead, I ran away, and, after 
selling most of my clothes to buy food 
by the way, reached my aunt's home. 
At first she did not recognize me ; then 
she did not know what to do with me. 
Finally she asked the advice of Mr. 



Dick, a benevolent but eccentric gentle- 
man who lodged at her house, and at his 
word took me to her heart and home. 
When Mr. Murdstone and his sister came 
in search of me, she " gave them a piece 
of her mind " and sent them about their 
business. Then she renamed me Trot- 
wood Copperfield, and adopted me as her 
ward. 

The next thing was to send me to 
school, at Canterbury. There I lived in 
the home of Mr. Wickfield, a lawyer of 
genial and benevolent disposition. He 
had a daughter named Agnes, about my 
own age ; and a clerk, Uriah Heep, who 
was a singularly repulsive individual. 

" I am well aware that 1 am the umblest 
person going," said Uriah Heep modestly; 
"let the other be where he may. My 
mother is likewise a very umble person. 
We live in an umble abode, Master 
Copperfield, but have much to be thank- 
ful for. My father's former calling was 
umble. He was a sexton." 

When I went to Canterbury I was 
much in love with little Em'ly. While 
there I began to love Miss Shepherd, a 
pretty girl at a neighboring girls' school. 
And because a young butcher of the place 
aspired to love her too, I fought a duel 
with him, with bare fists, and got tre- 
mendously thrashed. Again I fell in 
love with the eldest Miss Larkins, a fine 
woman of thirty or thereabouts, while I 
was seventeen. At the news of her 
marriage to another I was terribly de- 
jected, but had consolation in fighting 
the butcher again and thrashing him. 

At last my school days ended. On my 
way home I met Steerforth in London, 
quite unexpectedly, and renewed our old 
friendship. He took me on a visit to his 
home. There I met his mother, a proud 



4 I2 



FICTION. 



stately lady, and also one Miss Rosa 
Dartle. The latter was, I thought, about 
thirty years old, and anxious to be mar- 
ried. She was Mrs. Steerforth's com- 
panion, and it did not take long to show 
that she was almost consumed by the fire 
of her love for James Steerforth, who did 
not in the least reciprocate her passion. 

Next I took Steerforth down to Yar- 
mouth with me, and introduced him to 
my old friends there — Mr. Peggotty, Mr. 
and Mrs. Barkis, Ham, Little Em'ly, and 
Mrs. Gummidge. There, somewhat to 
my surprise and embarrassment, I learned 
that my earliest love, Little Em'ly, was 
to be married to her cousin Ham. We 
stayed there a fortnight, and Steerforth, 
by his easy, cordial manner, quite won 
the hearts of all the simple folk. We 
also saw there, one day, a fallen outcast 
girl, named Martha, who in her better 
days had been Em'Iy's friend, and who 
now fled from Yarmouth to hide herself 
and her shame in the dark mazes of 
London. 

My aunt decided to indenture me, at 
the cost of a thousand pounds, to a law- 
firm, Spenlow & Jorkins, in London. 
So I began work at Doctors' Commons. 
In the city I fell in with Steerforth again, 
and was led by him into wild dissipations. 
One night I went to the theatre with him 
while intoxicated, and acted disgrace- 
fully in the presence of Agnes Wick- 
field. Next day I begged her forgiveness, 
and when she granted it, called her my 
good angel. 

Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah. 

"Uriah Heep!" said I. "No. Is he 
in London ? " 

"He comes to the office downstairs, 
every day," returned Agnes. " 1 believe 
he is going to enter into partnership with 
papa." 



" What ? Uriah ? That mean fawning 
fellow, worm himself into such promo- 
tion ? " I cried indignantly. " You must 
prevent it, Agnes, while there's time." 

" Uriah," she replied, after a moment's 
hesitation, "has made himself indispen- 
sable to papa. He is subtle and watch- 
ful. He has mastered papa's weaknesses, 
fostered them, and taken advantage of 
them, until — to say all that 1 mean in a 
word, Trotwood, until papa is afraid of 
him." There was more that she might 
have said ; more that she knew or that 
she suspected ; I clearly saw. 1 could 
not give her pain by asking her what it 
was, for I knew that she withheld it from 
me to spare her father. 

Not long after this I again met Tommy 
Traddles, now studying law ; as of old, 
conscientious, diligent, and by no means 
fortunate. Before long, too, Uriah con- 
fided in me his ambition to make Agnes 
his wife, which, I saw, he meant to ac- 
complish by dishonestly getting her father 
into his power. 

Mr. Spenlow after a time invited me 
to visit his home, at Norwood, and I went 
thither with him. As we entered the 
house, " Where is Miss Dora ? " said Mr. 
Spenlow to the servant. "Dora!" I 
thought. "What a beautiful name!" 
We turned into a room near at hand and 
I heard a voice say, " Mr. Copperfield, 
my daughter Dora." It was, no doubt, 
Mr. Spenlow's voice, but I didn't know it, 
and I didn't care whose it was. All was 
over in a moment. 1 had fulfilled my 
destiny. I was a captive and a slave. I 
loved Dora Spenlow to distraction ! 

On my next visit to Yarmouth, I found 
my old friend Barkis rapidly sinking. 

"People can't die, along the coast," 
said Mr. Peggotty, " except when the 




MR. MICAWBER 



FICTION. 



4^ 



tide's pretty nigh out. They can't be 
born, unless it's pretty nigh in — not 
properly born, till flood. He's agoing 
out with the tide. It's ebb at half arter 
three, slack water half-an-hour. If he 
lives till it turns, he'll hold his own till 
past the flood, and go out with the next 
tide." 

We remained there, watching him, a 
long time — hours. What mysterious in- 
fluence my presence had upon him in 
that state of his senses, I shall not 
pretend to say; but when he at last 
began to wander feebly, it is certain 
he was muttering about driving me to 
school. 

Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whisp- 
ered with much awe and reverence, 
" They are both agoing out fast." 

I was on the point of asking him if he 
knew me, when he tried to stretch out 
his arm, and said to me distinctly, with 
a pleasant smile : 

II Barkis is willin' ! " 

But before I left Yarmouth, something 
worse occurred. Ham called me aside 
one evening, weeping and well nigh dis- 
tracted. Little Em'ly, so soon to become 
his wife, had run away ! 

11 For some time past," Ham faltered, 
"there's been a servant about here at odd 
times. There's been a gen'lm'n, too. 
The servant was seen along with — our 
poor girl — last night. He's been in hid- 
ing about here, this week or over. He 
was thought to have gone, but he was 
hiding. A strange chay and horses was 
outside the town, this morning, on the 
Norwich road, a'most afore the day 
broke. The servant went to it and 
come from it, and went to it again. 
When he went to it again, Em'ly 
was nigh him. The t'other was in- 



side. He's the man. Mas'r Davy," 
exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, " it 
aint no fault of yourn — and lam far from 
laying it to you but his name is Steer- 
forth, and he's a damned villain." 

Meantime, my love for Dora grew, 
and was reciprocated, and presently, all 
unknown to and unsuspected by her 
father, we were engaged. Then came 
the shock of my aunt's announcement 
that she had lost the bulk of her prop- 
erty ; was, in fact, reduced to poverty. 
How ? She explained it all to Agnes 
and me. Mr. Wickfield, Agnes' father, 
had been her man of business ; but she 
had been foolish enough to think some 
one else could make better investments 
for her, with the result that she had lost 
all. This, of course, affected my pros- 
pects sorely, and so, to add to our now 
pitifully small income, I sought my old 
school-master, at Canterbury, and en- 
gaged myself to him, as his secretary. I 
also got an engagement as reporter of 
debates in Parliament. But when I 
came to tell Dora of my reverses, she 
was frightened half to death. 

" Oh, don't be dreadful ! " she cried. 

''Indeed I am not going to be, my 
darling," I assured her. " But, Dora, 
my love, if you will sometimes think, — 
not despondingly, you know ; far from 
that! — but if you will sometimes think 
— just to encourage yourself — that you 
are engaged to a poor man — " 

" Don't, don't ! Pray don't ! " cried 
Dora. " It's so very dreadful ! " 

" My soul, not at all ! " said I cheer- 
fully. " If you will sometimes think of 
that, and look about now and then at 
your papa's housekeeping, and en- 
deavor to acquire a little habit of ac- 
counts, for instance — " 



4i6 



FICTION. 



Poor little Dora received this sugges- 
tion with something that was half a sob 
and half a scream. 

"It will be so useful to us after- 
ward," I went on. "And if you would 
promise me to read a little — a little 
Cookery Book, that I would send you, it 
would be so excellent for both of us. 
For my path in life, my Dora," said I, 
warming with the subject, " is stony and 
rugged now, and it rests with us to 
smooth it. We must fight our way 
onward. We must be brave. There are 
obstacles to be met, and we must meet 
and crush them ! " 

A few days later came a double cat- 
astrophe. Miss Murdstone, who was a 
confidential friend of Dora's, had sus- 
pected Dora's engagement to me, had 
spied upon her, and at last by a trick got 
possession of my love letters to her, 
which she promptly placed before Mr. 
Spenlow. That gentleman called me to 
a private interview with him, and taxed 
me with having acted most dishonorably 
in thus courting Dora without his knowl- 
edge or consent. He bade me break off 
the engagement, entirely and at once. 
1 refused. Finally, I agreed to think 
the matter over for a week. 

But the next day Mr. Spenlow was 
found by the roadside, where he had 
been driving, dead ! He left no will, and 
on examination it was found that after 
paying his debts his fortune would be 
quite exhausted, and Dora, who had 
thought herself rich, would be as poor as 
I. So she was taken under the care of 
her two aunts, maiden ladies of uncer- 
tain age, and to them I soon applied for 
permission to make Dora my wife. They 
consented to my paying my attentions 
to her, and once more I was made happy 



in her presence. And then — and then — 
after a time, we were married ! 

I doubt whether two young birds could 
have known less about keeping house 
than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a 
servant of course. She kept house for 
us. She had a written character, as 
large as a proclamation ; and, according 
to this document, could do everything of 
a domestic nature that ever I heard of, 
and a great many things that I never did 
hear of. 

But she preyed upon our minds dread- 
fully. We felt our inexperience, and 
were unable to help ourselves. 

II My dearest life," I said one day to 
Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has any 
idea of time ?" 

"Why, Doady? " inquired Dora, look- 
ing up innocently from her drawing. 

"My love, because it's five, and we 
were to have dined at four." 

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, 
and hinted that she thought it was too 
fast. 

"On the contrary, my love," said I, 
referring to my watch, "it's a few min- 
utes too slow." 

My little wife came and sat upon my 
knee, to coax me to be quiet, and drew 
a line with her pencil down the middle of 
my nose; but I couldn't dine off that, 
though it was very agreeable. 

"Don't you think, my dear," said I, "it 
would be better for you to remonstrate 
with Mary Anne?-' 

"Oh, no, please! I couldn't, Doady!" 
said Dora. 

"Why not, my love ?" I gently asked. 

"Oh, because I am such a little goose," 
said Dora, "and she knows I am !" 

"Will you call me a name I want you 
to call me?" Dora asked, one day. 



FICTION. 



4i7 



"What is it?" I asked with a smile. 

"It's a stupid name," she said, shaking 
her curls for a moment, "Child-wife." 

I laughingly asked my child-wife what 
her fancy was in desiring to be so called. 

"I don't mean, you silly fellow, that 
you should use the name instead of 
Dora. I only mean that you should 
think of me that way. When you are 
going to be angry with me say to your- 
self, " It's only my child-wife !" When I 
am very disappointing, say, "I knew, a 
long time ago, that she would make but 
a child-wife!" When you miss what I 
should like to be, and I think can never 
be, say, "Still my foolish child-wife loves 
me! For indeed I do." 

I was passing Mrs. Steerforth's house 
one day, when a maid came out and 
asked if I would oblige Miss Dartle by 
stepping in for a moment. I complied, 
and that lady asked me to hear the story 
which Littimer, James Steerforth's serv- 
ant, had to tell. This was that worthy's 
tale about little Em'ly : 

"Mr. James and myself had been 
abroad with the young woman, ever 
since she left Yarmouth under Mr. James' 
protection. Very much admired, indeed, 
the young woman was. What with her 
dress; what with the air and sun; what 
with being made much of; what with 
this, "that, and the other; her merits real- 
ly attracted general notice. The young 
woman went on in this manner for some 
time, being occasionally low in her spirits, 
until 1 think she began to weary Mr. 
James by giving way to her low spirits 
and tempers of that kind; and things were 
not so comfortable. Mr. James he be- 
gan to be restless again. The more rest- 
less he got, the worse she got; and I 
must say, for myself, that I had a very 



difficult time of it indeed, between the 
two. 

"But at last, when we were near 
Naples, Mr. James set off, and left me to 
break the news to her, that he was gone. 
The young woman's violence when she 
came to, after I broke the fact of his de- 
parture, was beyond all expectations. 
She was quite mad and had to be held by 
force, or, if she couldn't have got a knife, 
or got to the sea, she'd have beaten her 
head against the marble floor. 

"It was necessary, in short, for a time, 
to take away everything nigh her that 
she could do herself or anybody else an 
injury with, and to shut her up close. 
Notwithstanding which, she got out in 
the night, forced the lattice of a window, 
that I had nailed up myself; dropped on 
a vine that was trailed below; and never 
has been seen or heard of, to my know- 
ledge, since." 

"She is dead, perhaps," said Miss 
Dartle with a smile, as if she could have 
spurned the body of the ruined girl. 

"She may have drowned herself, 
miss," returned Mr. Littimer, catching 
at an excuse for addressing himself to 
somebody. "It's very possible." 

Mr. Peggotty was convinced, however, 
of the truth of a dream he had, that 
Em'ly was still alive and would be re- 
stored to him. So he and I sought out 
poor Martha, and by kindness won her 
to devote her life to good, and especially 
to seeking for the lost girl. She did so, 
and after a long search her labors were 
rewarded. Emily was found, and taken 
home by her uncle with all possible ten- 
derness and love. She had made her 
way back to London, and there been 
found and saved by Martha. Her uncle 
forgave her all that had occurred, and 



4 i8 



FICTION. 



then broke up the old home, and went to 
Australia with her, where life might be 
begun anew. 

It was not long afterward that, while I 
was at the seashore one day, a fearful 
tempest broke. A ship was wrecked 
before my very eyes. One of her pas- 
sengers made a desperate struggle with 
the waves. Ham rushed into the break- 
ers to help him, and did help him. But 
at last he was dashed upon the beach, 
dead. And there, close by the ruins of 
the home he had destroyed, lay Steer- 
forth, with his lifeless head upon his 
arm, as 1 had often seen him lie at school ! 

Exposure of Uriah Heep's rascality was 
bound to come at last. It came through 
Mr. Micawber, whom Heep had taken 
into his service after he had got into 
partnership with Mr. Wickfield. Mr. 
Micawber charged him to his face, in my 
presence, with having deceived and 
swindled Mr. Wickfield, and with having 
committed an appalling series of forgeries 
and other crimes. The evidence against 
the fellow was overwhelming, and in 
fear of being handed over to the police, 
he made, so far as possible, restitution 
of all his plunder. Included in this latter 
was my aunt's fortune, which, as she 
now owned, she had supposed Mr. 
Wickfield had misappropriated, the real 
culprit, of course, being Heep. 

Of the passing away of my child- 
wife, it is hard to write. On that last 
night she said to me as I knelt by her 
pillow : 

"I was very happy, very. But as 
years went on, my dear boy would 
have wearied of his child-wife. She 
would have been less and less a com- 
panion for him. He would have been 
more and more sensible of what was 



wanting in his home. She wouldn't 
have improved. It is better as it is." 

I went away from England, to forget,, 
if possible, my grief. When, after long 
absence, I returned, Agnes welcomed 
me with her old sisterly affection. There 
were many changes to observe. Not the 
least interesting was that Uriah Heep and 
Littimer were now Number 27 and Num- 
ber 28 in prison, and in their penitence 
were regarded as quite model prisoners. 

The year came round to Christmas- 
time, and I had been at home above two 
months. I had seen Agnes frequently. 
However loud the general voice might be 
in giving me encouragement, and how- 
ever fervent the emotions and endeavors 
to which it roused me, I heard her light- 
est word of praise as I heard nothing else. 

At last one day I told her of the love 
for her that had risen in my heart. It 
had always been there, but now made its 
over-mastering presence felt. And then 
she was clasped in my arms as she had 
never been, as I had thought she never 
was to be. 

"When I loved Dora — fondly, Agnes, 
as you know — " 

"Yes," she cried earnestly. 'Mam 
glad to know it." 

"When I loved her — -even then, my 
love would have been incomplete, with- 
out your sympathy. I had it, and it 
was perfected, and when I lost her, Agnes, 
what should I have been without you, 
still ! I went away, dear Agnes, loving 
you. I stayed away, loving you. I re- 
turned home loving you." 

"lam so blest, Trotwood — my heart 
is so overcharged — but there is one thing 
I must say." 

" Dearest, what ? " 

" I have loved you all my life ! " 




•. 







mmm 



■<*t^- 




AHOARD THE NAUTILUS 



TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA. 

By Jules Verne. 



Aboard the "Nautilus"— Submarine Hunting— The Forest— a Dreadful Scene- 
shocking the Natives— Sharks and Pearls-Fighting a Shark— The 
Tunnel of Suez-A Submarine volcano-Atlantic— The South 
pole — The devil Fish- a desperate Battle— 
The destroyer — The Maelstrom. 



(f 



HESE marvellous and exciting 
adventures of M. Pierre Aron- 
nax, his servant Conseil, and 
a Canadian whale-harpooner, 
Ned Land, had their origin in 1866. 
For some time ocean vessels had been 
met by "an enormous thing," a long 
object spindle-shaped, occasionally phos- 
phorescent, and infinitely larger and 
more rapid in its movements than a 
whale. Others observed what appeared 
to be a reef, or sandbank, in mid-ocean, 
which shifted from place to place. Some 
ships were injured by collisions with the 
mysterious object, and others were 
doubtless destroyed by it, since there 
were numerous total disappearances of 
ships. Finally the United States Gov- 
ernment sent out a warship, the Abraham 
Lincoln, to search for and capture or de- 
stroy the creature, whatever it might be. 
On that vessel I, Pierre Aronnax, with 
Conseil and Land, secured passage. 

Thousands of miles were sailed without 
result. Then, on November 5, not far 
from the coast of Japan, the object of 
our quest was sighted. A long chase 



followed, the unknown object easily 
keeping ahead of the ship. But one 
night it lay still upon the water, appar- 
ently an enormous narwhal with a lumi- 
nous eye. The ship stole up to it. Ned 
Land hurled his harpoon. I heard the 
sonorous stroke of the weapon, which 
seemed to have struck a hard body. 
The light went out suddenly, and two 
enormous waterspouts broke over the 
bridge of the frigate, rushing like a tor- 
rent from stem to stern, overthrowing 
men, and breaking the lashing of the 
spars. A fearful shock followed, and 
thrown over the rail without having time 
to stop myself, I fell into the sea. 

Conseil flung himself after me, and 
Ned Land was swept over with me. 
The frigate steamed away, and after a 
desperate struggle we three found our- 
selves alone in mid-ocean, on the back 
of the strange object we had come to de- 
stroy. It proved to be made of iron, and 
we perceived that it was some kind of a 
submarine boat. Suddenly a trap-door 
was opened, and we were drawn within 
it by eight masked men. Not a word 



21 



421 



4 22 



FICTION. 



was spoken by them, and for a time we 
were kept close prisoners in a room. 
Then the commander of the strange 
craft made himself known to us. He 
introduced himself as Captain Nemo, of 
the " Nautilus," and added: "I have 
done with society entirely, for reasons 
which I alone have the right of appreci- 
ating. I do not therefore obey its laws, 
and I desire you never to allude to them 
before me again !" 

Then he showed me through his ship. 
It was operated by electric machinery, 
and was capable of going at a high rate 
of speed, on the surface or at any depth 
below it. He made us his guests, though, 
of course, we were practically prisoners, 
and thus we entered upon our marvellous 
voyage. 

We were then in the Black River, or 
Japanese current, that great stream 
which flows through the North Pacific. 
After a few days of uneventful cruising, 
Captain Nemo invited us to a hunting 
expedition at the island of Crespo, a tiny 
rock in the North Pacific, and we of 
course accepted. The hunt proved to 
be a submarine one. We set out from 
the Nautilus in divers suits, walking on 
the bottom of the sea, and armed with 
guns charged with compressed air and 
firing electric bullets, which were more 
effective under water than an ordinary 
rifle in the air. In each man's outfit 
was included a supply of compressed air 
in a reservoir, sufficient for a day's 
breathing. 

The light, which lit the soil thirty feet 
below the surface of the ocean, as- 
tonished me by its power. The solar 
rays shone through the watery mass | 
easily, and dissipated all color, and I . 
clearly distinguished objects at a distance 



of a hundred and fifty yards. Above 
me was the calm surface of the sea. 
We were walking, on fine, even sand, 
not wrinkled, as on a flat shore, which 
retains the impression of the billows. 

The forest at the base of the island of 
Crespo was composed of large tree- 
plants. Not an herb which carpeted 
the ground, not a branch which clothed 
the trees, was either broken or bent, 
nor did they extend horizontally ; all 
stretched up to the surface of the ocean. 

Then, at a depth of seventy-five 
fathoms, we began to retrace our steps 
to the Nautilus, rising nearer and nearer 
the surface as the water shoaled. At 
ten yards and a half deep, we walked 
amid a shoal of little fishes of all kinds, 
more numerous than the birds of the air, 
and also more agile; but no aquatic game 
worthy of a shot had as yet met our 
gaze, when at that moment I saw the 
captain shoulder his gun quickly, and 
follow a moving object into the shrubs. 
He fired — I heard a slight hissing, and a 
creature fell stunned at some distance 
from us. It was a magnificent sea-otter, 
an enhydrus, the only exclusively marine 
quadruped. This otter was five feet 
long, and must have been very valuable. 
Half an hour later we reached and re- 
entered the Nautilus, and resumed our 
cruise. 

A few days later we were looking out 
into the depths of the sea, through one 
of the glass panels with which the sides 
of the Nautilus were provided. Suddenly 
a huge black mass loomed in view, in 
the electric light of our vessel. It was 
a sunken ship, which had been wrecked 
at most some few hours. Three stumps 
of masts, broken off about two feet 
above the bridge, showed that the vessel 



FICTION. 



4-'3 



had had to sacrifice its masts. But, 
lying on its side, it had filled, and it was 
heeling over to port. This skeleton of 
what it had once been was a sad spec- 
tacle as it lay lost under the waves ; but 
sadder still was the sight of the bridge, 
where some corpses, bound with ropes, 
were still lying. I counted five — four 
men, one of whom was standing at the 
helm, and a woman standing by the 
poop holding an infant in her arms. The 
steersman, alone, calm, with a grave, 
clear face, his gray hair glued to his 
forehead, and his hand clutching the 
wheel of the helm, seemed even then to 
be guiding the three broken masts through 
the depths of the ocean. 

Our next noteworthy adventure was 
on the coast of New Guinea. The 
Nautilus was run close to the shore, and 
Captain Nemo consented to our going on 
the land, to shoot game and get fresh 
meat, for which we were longing. We 
did so, to our great delight, but after 
several hours of sport, were attacked 
by the natives, and had to flee for our 
lives back to the Nautilus. Once within 
it we were secure. The natives swarmed 
over the iron top of the boat, unable to 
produce the least impression upon it. 

Before we sailed away, Captain Nemo 
ordered the hatches to be opened, re- 
gardless of the fact that the savages 
were ready to swarm in and butcher us. 

The port lids were 'pulled down out- 
side. Twenty horrible faces appeared. 
But the first native who placed his hand 
on the stair-rail, struck from behind by 
some invisible force, I know not what, 
fled, uttering the most fearful cries, and 
making the wildest contortions. 

Ten of his companions followed him. 
They met with the same fate. 



Conseil was in ecstasy. Ned Land, 
carried away by his violent instincts, 
rushed on to the staircase. But the 
moment he seized the rail with both 
hands, he, in his turn, was overthrown. 

"I am struck by a thunderbolt," cried 
he, with an oath. 

This explained all. It was no rail, but 
a metallic cable, charged with electricity 
from the deck, communicating with the 
platform. Whoever touched it felt a 
powerful shock — and this shock would 
have been mortal if Captain Nemo had 
discharged into the conductor the whole 
force of the current. 

After leaving the Pacific we entered 
the Indian Ocean, and visited the pearl 
fisheries of Ceylon. There Captain 
Nemo proposed that we leave the Nautilus 
and take another tramp on the bottom of 
the sea, among the oysters, the pearl- 
fishers, and the sharks. Amid the won- 
ders of the submarine world Captain 
Nemo led me into a cave where, on a 
ledge of rock, lay a gigantic oyster, more 
than two and a half yards across. The 
shells were a little open ; the captain 
came near, and put his dagger between 
to prevent them from closing; then with 
his hand he raised the membrane with 
its fringed edges, which formed a cloak 
for the creature. There, between the 
folded plaits, I saw a loose pearl, whose 
size equaled that of a cocoanut. Its glob- 
ular shape, perfect clearness, and admir- 
able lustre made it altogether a jewel of 
inestimable value. Carried away by my 
curiosity I stretched out my hand to seize 
it, weigh it, and touch it; but the captain 
stopped me, made a sign of refusal, and 
quickly withdrew his dagger, and the two 
shells closed suddenly. I then understood 
Captain Nemo's intention. In leaving 



424 



FICTION. 



this pearl hidden in the mantle of the 
tridacne, he was allowing it to grow 
slowly. Each year the secretions of the 
mollusk would enlarge the pearl. 

About five yards from me a shadow 
appeared and sank to the ground. It was 
a man, a living man, an Indian, a fisher- 
man, a poor devil, who, I suppose, had 
come to glean before the harvest. Sud 
denly, as the Indian was on the ground 
I saw him make a gesture of terror, rise 
and make a spring to return to the sur 
face of the sea. A gigantic shadow ap 
peared just above the unfortunate diver 
It was a shark of enormous size advanc 
ing diagonally, his eyes on fire, and his 
jaws open. The voracious creature shot 
toward the Indian, who threw himself on 
one side in order to avoid the shark's 
fins ; but not its tail, for it struck his 
chest, and stretched him on the ground. 
The shark returned, and turning on his 
back, prepared himself for cutting the 
Indian in two, when I saw Captain Nemo 
rise suddenly, and then, dagger in hand, 
walk straight to the monster. Holding 
himself well together, he waited for the 
shark with admirable coolness; and when 
it rushed at him, threw himself on one 
side with wonderful quickness, avoiding 
the shock, and burying his dagger deep 
into its side. But it was not all over. A 
terrible combat ensued. The blood rushed 
in torrents from its wound. The sea was 
dyed red, and through the opaque liquid 
I could distinguish nothing more. Nothing 
more, until the moment when, like light- 
ning, I saw the undaunted captain hang- 
ing on to one of the creature's fins, 
struggling, as it were, hand to hand with 
the monster, and dealing successive blows 
at his enemy, yet still unable to give a 
decisive one. The captain fell to the 



earth, upset by the enormous mass which 
leaned upon him. The shark's jaws 
opened wide, like a pair of factory shears, 
and it would have been all over with the 
captain; but quick as thought, harpoon in 
hand, Ned Land rushed toward the shark 
and struck it with its sharp point. Struck 
to the heart, it struggled in dreadful con- 
vulsions. Ned Land disentangled the 
captain, who, getting up without any 
wound, went straight to the Indian, 
quickly cut the cord which held him to 
the stone, took him in his arms, and with 
a sharp blow of his heel, mounted to the 
surface. Captain Nemo's first care was 
to recall the unfortunate man to life again. 
He opened his eyes. What was his sur- 
prise, his terror even, at seeing four great 
copper heads leaning over him ! And 
above all, what must he have thought 
when Captain Nemo, drawing from the 
pocket of his dress a bag of pearls, placed 
it in his hand ! 

Our course next led us into the Red 
Sea, and I supposed that after reaching 
its head we should have to turn back, as 
the Suez Canal was not yet navigable. 
But Captain Nemo told me he should go 
straight through to the Mediterranean, by 
way of a tunnel which he had discovered 
under the Isthmus of Suez. It was at 
night when we sighted the lights of Suez. 
Down we went to the depths again. The 
captain himself took the helm. A large 
gallery, black and deep, opened before 
us. The Nautilus went boldly into it. A 
strange roaring was heard round its sides. 
It was the waters of the Red Sea, which 
the incline of the tunnel precipitated 
violently toward the Mediterranean. The 
Nautilus went with the torrent, rapid as 
an arrow in spite of the efforts of the 
machinery, which, in order to offer more 




SUBMARINE HUNTING 



FICTION. 



427 



effective resistance, beat the waves with 
reversed screw. At length Captain Nemo 
quitted the helm; and turning to me, said: 

"The Mediterranean ! " 

In less than twenty minutes, the Nau- 
tilus, carried along by the torrent, had 
passed through the Isthmus of Suez. 

Among the Greek islands one day I 
noticed that it was growing very warm 
in the Nautilus, and asked the captain 
for an explanation. For an answer he 
opened the covers of the glass panels 
and I saw the sea entirely white all 
round. A sulphurous smoke was curl- 
ing amid the waves, which boiled like 
water in a copper. I placed my hand on 
one of the panes of glass, but the heat was 
so great that 1 quickly took it off again. 

" Where are we?" I asked. 

"Near the island of Santorin, sir," re- 
plied the captain, " and just in the canal 
which separates Nea Kamenni from Pali 
Kamenni. I wished to give you a sight 
of the curious spectacle of a submarine 
eruption." 

"We can remain no longer in this boil- 
ing water," said I to the captain. 

"It would not be prudent," replied the 
impassive Captain Nemo. 

An order was given ; the Nautilus 
tacked about and left the furnace it 
could not brave with impunity. A quar- 
ter of an hour after we were breathing 
fresh air on the surface. 

From the Mediterranean we went into 
the Atlantic Ocean, and there one day 
came to what seemed a sunken conti- 
nent. There, ruined, destroyed, lay a 
town — its roofs open to the sky, its 
temples fallen, its arches dislocated, its 
columns lying on the ground, from which 
one could still recognize the massive char- 
acter of Tuscan architecture. Further 



on, some remains of a gigantic aque- 
duct; here the high base of an Acropolis, 
with the floating outline of a Parthenon; 
there traces of a quay, as if an ancient 
port had formerly abutted on the borders 
of the ocean, and disappeared with its 
merchant vessels and its war galleys. 
Further on again, long lines of sunken 
walls and broad deserted streets — a per- 
fect Pompeii escaped beneath the waters. 
Such was the sight that Captain Nemo 
brought before my eyes. 

Where was I ? Where was I ? I must 
know at any cost. I tried to speak, but 
Captain Nemo stopped me by a gesture, 
and picking up a piece of chalk-stone ad- 
vanced to a rock of black basalt, and 
traced the one word, " Atlantic ! '' 

Southward again we sped, and entered 
the regions of ice, through which we 
fought our way. A gigantic iceberg bar- 
red our way. We sank to a depth of 900 
feet and passed under it. But then we 
found ourselves under a sea of ice. Hour 
after hour we sailed on, a thousand feet 
of ice over our heads ! At length the ice 
grew thinner, then vanished, and we rose 
to the surface of an open sea. There 
was a rocky coast not far away, and 
there we made a landing, and found the 
exact site of the South Pole. There 
Captain Nemo, resting with his hand on 
my shoulder, said : 

" I, Captain Nemo, on this 21st day of 
March, 1868, have reached the South Pole 
on the ninetieth degree ; and I take pos- 
session of this part of the globe, equal to 
one-sixth of the known continents." 

Saying which, Captain Nemo unfurled 
a black banner, bearing an N in gold 
quartered on its bunting. 

Back to the North Atlantic then we 
sailed, and amid the Bahama Islands met 



428 



FICTION. 



with a tragic episode. Looking through 
the submarine window one day we saw 
a horrible monster, worthy to figure in 
the legends of the marve lous. It was an 
immense cuttle-fish, being eight yards 
long. It swam crossways in the direc- 
tion of the Nautilus with great speed, 
watching us with its enormous staring 
green eyes. Its eight arms, or rather 
feet, fixed to its head, that have given 
the name of cephalopod to these animals, 
were twice as long as its body, and were 
twisted like the Furies' hair. One could 
see the 250 air-holes on the inner side of 
the tentacles. The monster's mouth, a 
horned beak like a parrot's, opened and 
shut vertically. Its tongue, a horned 
substance, furnished with several rows 
of pointed teeth, came out quivering from 
this veritable pair of shears. What a 
freak of nature — a bird's beak on a mol- 
lusk! 

As we gazed at it, the Nautilus stopped. 
Another such creature had got its horny 
beak entangled in the screw. So Cap- 
tain Nemo made the boat rise to the sur- 
face, to " slaughter this vermin." 

About ten men with boarding hatchets 
were ready for the attack. Conseil and 
I took two hatchets ; Ned Land seized a 
harpoon. One of the sailors, posted on 
the top ladder-step, unscrewed the bolts 
of the panels. But hardly were the 
screws loosed, when the panels rose with 
great violence, evidently drawn by the 
suckers of a poulp's arm. Immediately 
one of these arms slid like a serpent 
down the opening, and twenty others 
were above. With one blow of the axe, 
Captain Nemo cut this formidable ten- 
tacle, that slid wriggling down the lad- 
der. Just as we were pressing one on 
the other to reach the platform, two 



J other arms, lashing the air, came down 
on the seaman placed before Captain 
Nemo and lifted him up with irresistible 
power. Captain Nemo uttered a cry 
and rushed out. We hurried after him. 

What a scene ! The unhappy man, 
seized by the tentacle, and fixed to the 
suckers, was balanced in the air at the 
caprice of this enormous trunk. The 
unfortunate man was lost. Who could 
rescue him from that powerful pres- 
sure ? However Captain Nemo had 
rushed to the poulp, and with one blow 
of the axe, had cut through one arm. 
His lieutenant struggled furiously against 
other monsters that crept on the flanks 
of the Nautilus. The crew fought with 
their axes. 

For one instant I thought the unhappy 
man tangled with the poulp would be 
torn from its powerful suction. Seven of 
the eight arms had been cut off. One 
only wriggled in the air, brandishing the 
victim like a feather. But just as Cap- 
tain Nemo and his lieutenant threw them- 
selves on it, the animal ejected a stream 
of black liquid. We were blinded with 
it. When the cloud dispersed, the cuttle- 
fish had disappeared. 

Crossing the ocean to the shores of 
Europe, we encountered a war-ship, of 
what nationality, I could not discover. 
Captain Nemo regarded it, however, as 
an " accursed ship of an accursed na- 
tion," and prepared to attack it. For a 
time he allowed it to pursue him and ex- 
pend its shots harmlessly upon the in- 
vulnerable back of the Nautilus. Then 
at last he sank below the surface, and 
sent his boat at incredible speed against 
the unprotected side of the ship. I 
could feel the shock, though it seemed 
light. I felt the penetrating power of 



FICTION. 



429 



the steel spur. I heard rattlings and 
scrapings. But the Nautilus, carried 
along by its propelling power, passed 
through the mass of the vessel, like a 
needle through sail-cloth ! 

I could stand it no longer. Mad, out 
of my mind, I rushed from my room into 
the saloon. Captain Nemo was there, 
mute, gloomy, implacable ; he was look- 
ing through the port panel. A large 
mass cast a shadow on the water ; and 
that it might lose nothing of her agony, 
the Nautilus was going down into the 
abyss with her. Ten yards from me 1 
saw the open shell through which the 
water was rushing with the noise of 
thunder, then the double line of guns 
and the netting. The bridge was cov- 
ered with black agitated shadows. 

The water was rising. The poor 
creatures were crowding the ratlings, 
clinging to the masts, struggling under 
water. It was a human ant-heap over- 
taken by the sea. Suddenly an ex- 
plosion took place. The compressed air 
blew up her decks, as if the magazines 
had caught fire. Then the unfortunate 
vessel sank more rapidly. Her topmast, 
laden with victims, now appeared ; then 
her spars, bending under the weight of 
men ; and last of all, the top of her main- 
mast. Then the dark mass disappeared, 
and with it the dead crew, drawn down 
by the strong eddy. 



1 turned to Captain Nemo. When all 
was over, he turned to his room, opened 
the door and entered. I followed him 
with my eyes. On the end wall, be- 
neath his heroes, I saw the portrait of a 
woman, still young, and two little chil- 
dren. Captain Nemo looked at them for 
some moments, stretched his arm toward 
them, and kneeling down, burst into 
deep sobs. I heard him murmur these 
words (the last which ever struck my 
ear) : 

" Almighty God ! enough ! enough ! " 

Was it a confession of remorse which 
thus escaped from this man's conscience ? 

The end of our voyage came suddenly. 
We were off the Norwegian coast. The 
Nautilus began to whirl about in circles. 
We were within the grasp of the awful 
maelstrom. When the catastrophe oc- 
curred, Conseil, Ned Land, and I were 
in the small boat on top of the Nau- 
tilus, meaning to make our escape. 
The whirlpool tore us loose, and then 
for a time I knew no more. When 
I regained consciousness we were all 
safe, in a fisherman's hut, on one of 
the Loffoden Isles. In ten months we 
had traveled 20,000 leagues under the 
sea. 

But what has become of the Nautilus ? 
Did it resist the pressure of the mael- 
strom ? Does Captain Nemo still live ? 
Who can tell ? 



ROBINSON CRUSOE. 

By Daniel Defoe 



Making a home— Planting a Garden— boat-Building— exploring the Island- 
a Picturesque Outfit— The Footprint in the Sand— the Rescue of 
Friday-Another boat-Fighting Savages-Sending for Cast- 
aways—The English Ship— The Mutineers- 
Home again at Last. 



I WAS born in the year 1632, in the 
city of York, of a good family, 
though not of that country, my father 
being a foreigner, of Bremen, who 
settled first at Hull ; he got a good estate 
by merchandise, and leaving off his 
trade, lived afterward at York ; from 
whence he had married my mother, whose 
relations were named Robinson, a very 
good family in that country, and from 
whom I was called Robinson Kreutz- 
naer ; but, by the usual corruption of 
words in England, we are now called, 
nay, we call ourselves, and write our 
name, Crusoe ; and so my companions 
always called me. 

Being the third son of the family, and 
not bred to any trade, my head began to 
be filled very early with rambling 
thoughts ; my father, who was very an- 
cient, had given me a competent share 
of learning, as far as house-education and 
country free-school generally goes, and 
designed me for the law ; but I would be 
satisfied with nothing but going to sea ; 
and my inclination to this led me ulti- 
mately to run away from home and take 
passage on a ship. 



After several voyages, with various 
shipwrecks and other adventures, I set 
out on a voyage from Brazil to Guinea. 
The ship was driven far out of its course 
by storms, and at last went aground 
near the shore of an unknown island. 
The entire company put off in a boat, 
but the waves were too furious. The 
boat was swamped, and every man per- 
ished save myself, who with vast diffi- 
culty got ashore. 

When the storm abated, I could see 
our ship standing upright where she ran 
aground, not a mile away, and I reflected 
that if we had all remained aboard, all my 
companions would still be living. 

As soon as possible I made a raft, and 
conveyed from the ship to the shore all 
possible supplies of food, clothing, tools, 
arms and ammunition, and everything 
that was likely to prove of use to me. For 
a time I lived in a tent on the shore, but 
finding the place neither wholesome nor 
easily defended against savages, I 
searched for a better one. I found a 
little plain on the side of a rising hill, 
whose front towards this little plain was 
steep as a house-side, so that nothing 



430 



FICTION. 



431 



could come down on me from the top. 
On the side of the rock there was a 
hollow place, worn a little way in, like 
the entrance or door of a cave ; but there 
was not really any cave, or way into the 
rock, at all. 

On the flat of the green, just below 
this hollow place, I resolved to pitch my 
tent. This plain was not above a hun- 
dred yards broad, and about twice as 
long, and lay like a green before my 
door; and, at the end of it, descending 
irregularly every way down into the low 
ground by the seaside. It was on the 
N. N. W. side of the hill; so that it was 
sheltered from the heat every day, till it 
came to the W. and by S. sun, or there- 
abouts, which, in those countries, is near 
the setting. 

Before 1 set up my tent, 1 drew a half- 
circle before the hollow place, which took 
in about ten yards in its semi-diameter, 
from the rock, and twenty yards in its 
diameter from its beginning and ending. 

In this half-circle I pitched two rows of 
strong stakes, driving them into the 
ground till they stood very firm like piles, 
the biggest end being out of the ground 
above five feet and a half, and sharpened 
on the top. The two rows did not stand 
above six inches from one another. 

Then I took the pieces of cable which 
I had cut in the ship, and laid them in 
rows, upon one another, within the 
circle, between these two rows of 
stakes, up to the top, placing other 
stakes in the inside, leaning against 
them, about two feet and a half high, 
like the spur to a post; and this fence 
was so strong that neither man nor 
beast could get into it or over it. This 
cost me a great deal of time and labor, 
especially to cut the piles in the woods, 



bring them to the place, and drive them 
into the earth. 

The entrance into this place I made to 
be, not by a door, but by a short ladder 
to go over the top; which ladder, when I 
was in, I lifted over after me ; and so I 
was completely fenced in and fortified, 
as I thought, from all the world, and 
consequently slept secure in the night, 
which otherwise I could not have done; 
though, as it appeared afterwards, there 
was no need of all this caution from 
the enemies that I apprehended danger 
from. 

Into this fence, or fortress, with infinite 
labor, 1 carried all my riches, all my 
provisions, ammunition, and stores. 

When 1 had done this, I began to work 
my way into the rock, and bringing all 
the earth and stones that I dug down, 
out through my tent, I laid them up 
within my fence in the nature of a terrace, 
so that it raised the ground within about 
a foot and a half ; and thus I made me a 
cave, just behind my tent, which served 
me like a cellar to my house. 

Among the goods which I brought from 
the ship there were a few grains of corn 
and barley, which I carefully planted 
and cultivated, as I did also some rice. 
Thus I was enabled to make a little farm, 
which would supply me with food. I 
caught and tamed some wild goats and 
soon had quite a herd of them, which 
supplied me with milk and meat, and 
with skins for clothing. Birds of various 
kinds abounded, and so did great turtles, 
and with these I was enabled to keep my 
larder well supplied. 

It cost me many experiments and 
much labor to make earthenware vessels 
which would hold liquids and stand the 
heat of the fire, but at last succeeded 



432 



FICTION. 



in doing so, and also a stone mortar, or 
mill, in which to grind my corn. 

Imagining my island to be not very far 
from the coast of Brazil, I set about plans 
for making a boat, in which I might effect 
my escape. I decided to make it of the 
log of a great tree, as the Indians do. 
So I went to work and felled a cedar tree. 
1 question much whether Solomon ever 
had such a one for building the Tem- 
ple at Jerusalem ; it was five feet ten 
inches diameter at the lower part next 
the stump, and four feet eleven inches 
diameter at the end of twenty-two feet; 
after which it lessened for a while, and 
then parted into branches. It was not 
without 'infinite labor that I felled this 
tree. I was twenty days hacking and 
hewing at it at the bottom ; I was fourteen 
more getting the branches and limbs and 
the vast spreading head of it cut off, 
which I hacked and hewed through with 
my ax and hatchet, and inexpressible 
labor; after this, it cost me a month to 
shape it and dub it to a proportion, and 
to something like the bottom of a boat, 
that it might swim upright as it ought to 
do. It cost me near three months more 
to clear the inside, and work it out so 
as to make an exact boat of it; this I 
did, indeed, without fire, by mere mallet 
and chisel, and by the dint of hard labor, 
till I had brought it to be a very hand- 
some periagua, and big enough to have 
carried six-and-twenty men, and conse- 
quently big enough to have carried me 
and all my cargo. 

But all my devices to get it into the 
water failed me ; though they cost in- 
finite labor too. It lay about one hun- 
dred yards from the water, and not 
more; but the first inconvenience was, 
it was up hill towards the creek. Well, 



to take away this discouragement, I re- 
solved to dig into the surface of the earth, 
and so make a declivity. This I began, 
and it cost me a prodigious deal of pains 
(but who grudge pains that have their 
deliverance in view?); but when this 
was worked through, and this difficulty 
managed, it was still much at one, for I 
could no more stir the canoe than I could 
the other boat. Then I measured the 
distance of the ground, and resolved to 
cut a dock or canal, to bring the water 
up to the canoe, seeing I could not bring 
the canoe down to the water. Well, I 
began this work ; and when 1 be^an to 
enter into it, and calculate how deep it 
was to be dug, how broad, how the stuff 
was to be thrown out, 1 found that, by 
the number of hands \ had, being none 
but my own, it must have been ten or 
twelve years before I could have gone 
through with it ; for the shore lay so 
high that at the upper end it must have 
been at least twenty feet deep ; so at 
length, though with great reluctancy, I 
gave this attempt over also. 

After this failure I lived for five years 
without any striking incident. Then I 
succeeded in finishing a smaller boat, or 
canoe, and in getting it to the water. It 
was not big enough to venture to go to 
Brazil in, but I made bold to set out in it 
for a voyage of discovery around my 
island. This 1 did and made many in- 
teresting discoveries, but found no traces 
of man, nor any prospect of escaping 
from my island prison. 

My appearance at this time would have 
astonished any civilized man who might 
have seen me. 

I had a great high shapeless cap, made 
of goat's skin, with a flap hanging down 
behind, as well to keep the sun from me 



FICTION. 



433 



as to shoot the rain off from running into 
my neck. 

My beard I had once suffered to grow 
till it was about a quarter of a yard long ; 
but as I had both scissors and razors suffi- 
cient, I had cut it pretty short, except 
what grew on my upper lip, which I had 
trimmed into a large pair of Mahometan 
whiskers, such as I had seen worn by 
some Turks at Sallee, for the Moors did 
not wear such, though the Turks did ; 
of these moustachios, or whiskers, I will 
not say they were long enough to hang 
my hat upon them, but they were of 
a length and shape monstrous enough, 
and such as in England would have 
passed for frightful. 

One day after a violent storm, I dis- 
covered near the beach, the wreck of a 
Spanish ship, and managed to secure 
some articles from it, and some bits of 
money, but of the ship's company, saw 
no survivors. 

And now 1 come to a new scene of my 
life. It happened one day, about noon, 
going towards my boat, I was exceedingly 
surprised with the print of a man's naked 
foot on the shore, which was very plain 
to be seen on the sand. I stood like 
one thunderstruck, or as if I had seen 
an apparition. 1 listened, I looked round 
me, but I could hear nothing, nor see 
anything; I went up to a rising ground, 
to look farther ; I went up the shore, and 
down the shore, but it was all one : I 
could see no other impression but that 
one. I went to it again to see if there 
were any more, and to observe if it 
might not be my fancy ; but there was 
no room for that, for there was exactly 
the print of a foot — toes, heel, and every 
part of a foot. How it came thither I 
knew not, nor could in the least imagine. 



But after innumerable fluttering thoughts 
like a man perfectly confused and out of 
himself, I came home to my fortification, 
not feeling, as we say, the ground I went 
on, but terrified to the last degree, look- 
ing behind me at every two or three 
steps, mistaking every bush and tree, 
and fancying every stump at a distance 
to be a man. Nor is it possible to des- 
cribe how many various shapes my af- 
frighted imagination represented things 
to me in ; how many wild ideas were 
formed every moment in my fancy, and 
what strange unaccountable whimseys 
came into my thoughts by the way. 

Not long after that, I found that my 
island was a resort of cannibals, who 
brought their victims thither to kill and 
eat them. It is impossible for me to ex- 
press the horror of my mind, at seeing 
the shore spread with skulls, hands, feet, 
and other bones of human bodies ; and 
particularly, I observed a place where 
there had been a fire made, and a circle 
dug in the earth, like a cockpit, where I 
supposed the savage wretches had sat 
down to their inhuman feastings upon 
the bodies of their fellow-creatures. 

I was now in the twenty-third year of 
residence in this island, and was so 
naturalized to the place and the manner 
of living, that, could I but have enjoyed 
the certainty that no savages would 
come to the place to disturbe me, I could 
have been contented to have capitulated 
for spending the rest of my time there. 
But that was not to be. 

About a year and a half later I dis- 
covered, one morning, a party of about 
thirty savages, landed on the island for 
a cannibal feast. They brought two 
captives from a boat, and killed and 
began to cook one. The other suddenly 



434 



FICTION. 



broke from them and ran for life, straight 
toward me. As he got near me, closely 
pressed by two pursuers, I went out to 
meet him, gun in hand. One of his pur- 
suers I knocked down with the butt of 
my gun. The other stopped, as if he 
had been frightened, and I advanced to- 
wards him ; but as I came nearer, I 
perceived presently he had a bow and 
arrow, and was fitting it to shoot at me ; 
so 1 was then obliged to shoot at him 
first, which I did, and killed him at the 
first shot. The poor savage who had 
fled, but had stopped, though he saw 
both his enemies fallen and killed, as he 
thought, yet was so frightened with the 
fire and noise of my piece that he stood 
stock still, and neither came forward nor 
went backward, though he seemed rather 
inclined still to fly than to come on. I 
hallooed again to him, and made signs to 
come forward, which be easily under- 
stood, and came a little way ; then 
stopped again, and then a little farther, 
and stopped again ; and I could then 
perceive that he stood trembling, as if 
he had been taken prisoner, and had just 
been to be killed, as his two enemies 
were. 1 beckoned to him again to come 
to me, and gave him all the signs of en- 
couragement that I could think of ; and 
he came nearer and nearer, kneeling 
down every ten or twelve steps, in token 
of acknowledgment for saving his life. I 
smiled at him, and looked pleasantly, 
and beckoned to him to come still nearer ; 
at length, he came close to me; and 
then he kneeled down again, kissed the 
ground, and laid his head upon the 
ground, and, taking me by the foot, set 
my foot upon his head ; this, it seems, 
was in token of swearing to be my slave 
forever. The other savages were soon I 



put to flight. As for the one I had 
rescued, I called him Friday, for it was 
on that day of the week that I first met 
him. He proved amiable and affectionate, 
and I succeeded in educating him to a 
degree, and in making of him an excel- 
lent servant and agreeable companion. 

With Friday's help I now set to work 
to make another large boat, and this 
time succeeded in getting it launched. 
It was big enough to carry twenty men, 
and I fitted it with mast and sails, rudder 
and anchor. 

I was now in the twenty-seventh year 
of my residence on the island, and I 
eagerly pressed preparations for a serious 
attempt to get away. Then one day 
Friday, terribly frightened, told me that 
three canoes full of savages had landed 
on the island. I quickly armed him, for 
I had taught him to be expert in the use 
of firearms, and we set out to see what 
the savages were doing. To my horror 
I saw that they had for a captive a white 
man, whom they were evidently about 
to kill and eat. We crept up hastily and 
opened fire upon the wretches, killing 
and wounding many of them. Then we 
released the captive, who happily was 
unharmed, and gave him weapons. He 
joined us in attacking the rest of the 
savages with incredible fury, and we 
soon made an end of them, nearly all. 
The account of the whole is as follows: 
Three killed at our first shot from the 
tree; two killed at the next shot; two 
killed by Friday in the boat; two killed 
by Friday, of those at first wounded; 
one killed by Friday in the wood; three 
killed by the Spaniard ; four killed, being 
found dropped here and there, of the 
wounds, or killed by Friday in his chase 
of them ; four escaped in the boat, 




ROBINSON CRUSOE 



FICTION. 



437 



whereof one wounded if not dead — 
twenty-one, in all. 

When we came to search the canoes 
they had left, we found another captive 
in one of them, bound hand and foot but 
living, and in him, to his unspeakable 
delight, Friday recognized his own father. 

My island was now peopled, and I 
thought myself very rich in subjects; 
and it was a merry reflection, which I 
frequently made, how like a king I 
looked. First of all, the whole country 
was my own mere property, so that I 
had an undoubted right of dominion. 
Secondly, my people were perfectly 
subjected ; I was absolute lord and 
lawgiver ; they all owed their lives to me, 
and were ready to lay down their lives, 
if there had been occasion for it, for me. 

It was remarkable, too, I had but three 
subjects, and they were of three different 
religions: my man Friday was a Pro- 
testant, his father was a Pagan and a 
cannibal, and the Spaniard was a Papist. 
However,! allowed liberty of conscience 
throughout my dominion. 

In a little time, no more canoes ap- 
pearing, the fear of their coming wore 
off; and I began to take my former 
thoughts of a voyage to the main into 
consideration ; being likewise assured by 
Friday's father that I might depend upon 
good usages from their nation, on his ac- 
count, if I would go. But my thoughts 
were a little suspended when I had a 
serious discourse with the Spaniard, and 
when I understood that there were six- 
teen more of his countrymen and Portu- 
guese, who having been cast away and 
made their escape to that side, lived there 
at peace, indeed, with the savages, but 
, were very sore put to it for necessaries, 
and, indeed, for life. 



And now, having a full supply of food 
for all the guests expected, I gave the 
Spaniard leave to go over to the main, to 
see what he could do with those he had 
left behind him there. I gave him a 
strict charge not to bring any man with 
him who would not first swear, in the 
presence of himself and the old savage, 
that he would no way injure, fight with, 
or attack the person he should find in the 
island, who was so kind as to send for 
them in order to their deliverance ; but 
that they would stand by him and defend 
him against all such attempts, and 
wherever they went, would be entirely 
under and subjected to his command ; 
and that this should be put in writing, 
and signed with their hands. How they 
were to have done this, when I knew 
they had neither pen nor ink — that, in- 
deed, was a question which we never 
asked. Under these instructions, the 
Spaniard and the old savage, the father 
of Friday, went away in one of the 
canoes which they might be said to have 
come in, or rather, were brought in, 
when they came as prisoners to be de- 
voured by the savages. I gave each of 
them a musket, with a firelock on it, and 
about eight charges of powder and ball, 
charging them to be very good husbands 
of both, and not to use either of them but 
upon urgent occasion. 

Eight days after they had gone, while 
I was still sleeping in the morning, Friday 
came running in to me, and called aloud, 
"Master, master, they are come, they 
are come!" I jumped up, and regard- 
less of danger, I went out as soon as 1 
could get my clothes on, through my lit- 
tle grove, which, by the way, was by 
this time grown to be a very thick wood; 
I say regardless of danger, I went with- 



438 



FICTION. 



out my arms, which was not my custom 
to do : but I was surprised, when, turn- 
ing my eyes to the sea, 1 presently saw 
a boat at about a league and a half dis- 
tance, standing in for the shore, with a 
shoulder-of-mutton sail, as they call it, 
and the wind blowing pretty fair to bring 
them in ; also 1 observed, presently, that 
they did not come from that side which 
the shore lay on, but from the southern- 
most end of the island. Upon this I 
called Friday in, and bade him lie close, for 
these were not the people we looked for, 
and that we might not know yet whether 
they were friends or enemies. In the 
next place, 1 went in to fetch my per- 
spective-glass, to see what I could make 
of them ; and, having taken the ladder 
out, I climbed up to the top of the hill, as 
1 used to do when I was apprehensive of 
anything, and to take my view plainer, 
without being discovered. I had scarce 
set my foot upon the hill, when my eye 
plainly discovered a ship lying at an an- 
chor, about two leagues and a half dis- 
tance from me, S.S.E., but not above a 
league and a half from the shore. By 
observation, it appeared plainly to be an 
English ship, and the boat appeared to be 
an English longboat. 

As we watched them at a distance, we 
saw three men put ashore with much ill- 
treatment. The rest of the company 
went off to see the island, leaving the 
boat aground with two men in it, both 
intoxicated. We then advanced cau- 
tiously to the three ill-treated men, and 
found them to be the captain, mate, and 
a passenger. The crew had mutinied, 
and meant to kill them, but finally de- 
cided to put them ashore, and abandon 
them to their fate. 

I gave the three men arms, and joined 



forces with them. Then we attacked the 
mutineers, surprising them as they lay 
asleep. Some were killed, others wound- 
ed, and all quickly reduced to submission. 
The boat was secured, and the captain 
was soon in possession of his ship again. 

Some of the mutineers became obedi- 
ent, and were taken back on the ship. 
Five others begged to be left on the 
island, and to this I consented. Accord- 
ingly* I gave them the whole history of 
the place, and of my coming to it; showed 
them my fortifications, the way I made 
my bread, planted my corn, cured my 
grapes, and, in a word, all that was neces- 
sary to make them easy. I told them the 
story also of the sixteen Spaniards, that 
were to be expected, for whom I left a 
letter, and made them promise to treat 
them in common with themselves. 

When I took leave of this island, I car- 
ried on board, for relics, the great goat- 
skin cap I had made, my umbrella, and 
one of my parrots ; also I forgot not to 
take the money I formerly mentioned, 
which had lain by me so long useless that 
it was grown rusty and tarnished, and 
could hardly pass for silver till it had 
been a little rubbed and handled, and 
also the money I found in the wreck of 
the Spanish ship. And thus I left the 
island, the 19th of December, as I found 
by the ship's account, in the year 1686, 
after I had been upon it eight-and-twenty 
years, two months, and nineteen days ; 
being delivered from this second captiv- 
ity the same day of the month that I 
first made my escape in the longboat 
from among the Moors of Sallee. In 
this vessel, after a long voyage, I ar- 
rived in England the nth of June, in the 
year 1687, having been thirty-five years 
absent. 



LES MISERABLES. 

By Victor Hugo. 



M. Madeleine— Fantine— The Trial— Death of Fantine-The Escape— arrest and 

ESCAPE— COSETTE— MARIUS— THE DEATH TRAP— THE BARRICADES— THE LAST 
OF JAVERT— THE TRIUMPH OF MARIUS— TWO EXPLANATIONS— THE END. 




ARLY in October, 1815, an 
hour before sunset, a footsore 
wanderer entered the French 
town of Digne. He sought 
lodging at the inn, but at a hint from the 
Mayor the landlord refused to receive 
him. " I know you," he said. "Youare 
Jean Valjean, an ex-convict. Now be- 
gone!" The wanderer sought shelter at 
other houses, public and private, but was 
rudely repulsed. There seemed nothing 
for him but to spend the night in the open 
air. But some one finally directed him 
to the house of the good Bishop Myriel. 
Thither he went. He told who he was 
and how he had been treated, and warned 
the Bishop that he was a rough customer, 
a dangerous man. The good bishop un- 
hesitatingly received him as an honored 
guest. " My brother," he called him. 

Jean Valjean was astounded at such 
treatment. It was the first time in nine- 
teen years he had slept in a bed. In 
the middle of the night he awoke 
and thought of his past life. He had come 
of a poor rustic family at Brie, and had 
not been taught even to read. In child- 
hood he was left an orphan, and in pov- 
erty. He worked hard to keep himself 



and his younger brothers and sisters from 
starvation. One day, in utter despera- 
tion, he snatched a loaf of bread from a 
baker's shop. For that he was sent to 
the galleys for five years! He tried to 
escape, and got three years more. Again 
he tried to escape, and got five more. Two 
more attempts, with penalties, made the 
total nineteen years. Now he was out at 
last, an embittered enemy of society. 

Before daylight he rose, put the silver 
plate of the bishop's table in a bag, and 
stole away ! At breakfast time he was 
caught by the police and brought back. 
The good bishop told the police they had 
made a mistake. 

"1 suppose," took up the bishop, smil- 
ing, "that he told you that it was given 
him by a good old priest in whose house 
he passed the night ? I can see what 
occurred. And you brought him back to 
verify ? You made a mistake." 

" Does your lordship mean that we are 
to let him go ? " asked the corporal. 

"Of course," replied the bishop. 

They went away. 

The felon seemed about to swoon as 
the bishop approached him and said to 
him in an undertone: 



439 



44o 



FICTION. 



"Jean Valjean, my brother, you no 
longer belong to evil, but unto good. It 
is your soul that I have bought; I redeem 
it from black thoughts and the Spirit of 
Perdition, and I offer it to God." 

A few weeks later a stranger entered 
the town of Montreuil and opened a shop 
for the manufacture of black glass 
jewelry. He had invented an improved 
method, by means of which he greatly 
prospered. When he began he had only 
a few hundred francs. In a few years 
he counted them by hundreds of thou- 
sands, and was the head of great manu- 
facturing enterprises. He was a benevo- 
lent, thoughtful man, who was known as 
Father Madeleine. The government ap- 
pointed him Mayor. He declined. It 
made him a Knight of the Legion of 
Honor. He declined it. A second time it 
made him Mayor, and now he reluctantly 
accepted that he might do more good to 
the town than he otherwise could. One 
day news came of the death of Bishop 
Myriel. Thereupon M. Madeleine put 
crape upon his hat. 

All men loved and respected M. Made- 
leine but one, who suspected him. This 
was one Javert, a police inspector. He 
was a man possessed of only two dom- 
inant ideas, respect for authority and 
hate for rebellion. In his sighrt there 
could be no forgiveness for any crime. 
He suspected M. Madeleine of having 
been a convict, and watched him to 
detect him. 

To M. Madeleine's factories there came 
Fantine, a young woman who had been 
betrayed and deserted by a young stu- 
dent. She sought to earn an honest liv- 
ing and redeem her life. Her infant child, 
Cosette, she had left with a family nam- 
ed Thenardier, in a distant town. Her 



beauty made her fellow-workers jealous. 
They pried into her business, found that 
she had a child, and raised a scandal 
about her. In shame and confusion she 
left the factory. Nowhere else could she 
obtain employment. Driven to despair, 
for money to support Cosette she sold 
her clothes, then her hair, then two of 
her teeth ! At last she became a woman 
of the town, selling herself for her child's 
sake. One night a stranger brutally as- 
saulted her on the street. She turned 
upon him, and was arrested, and con- 
demned by Javert to the workhouse. 
M. Madeleine interfered and set her at 
liberty. She was ill, and he sent her to 
a hospital to be cared for tenderly. 

One day Javert came to M. Madeleine 
and told him a man who called himself 
Champmathieu had been arrested, charg- 
ed with being Jean Valjean, and 
with having committed a theft since his 
release from the galleys. This profound- 
ly affected M. Madeleine, in whom, of 
course, we have already recognized the 
real Jean Valjean. 

After a hard mental struggle, M. Mad- 
eleine hastened to Arras, where Champ- 
mathieu was being tried. He entered 
the court, and was received with all hon- 
or as the Mayor of Montreuil. He found 
Champmathieu about to be convicted ; 
intervened, and denounced himself as the 
real Jean Valjean. 

"Gentlemen of the jury, you will have 
to release the prisoner, if you please. 
My lord the judge, order me to be taken 
into custody. The man whom you are 
seeking for is here, not there — I am Jean 
Valjean." 

Not a voice, not a hand was raised to 
stay him as he proceeded towards the 
exit. All drew aside. Something divine 



> 

< 
> 

2 




FICTION. 



443 



made the multitude stand back, and form 
a line before that single man. He went 
through the crowd with a slow step. 
None knew who opened the doors, but 
they were wide open when he came up 
to them. 

He went forth, and the doors closed as 
they had opened, for those who do sov- 
ereign acts are sure to be forwarded by 
their fellow-men in the mob. 

Less than an hour subsequently, the 
verdict discharged Champmathieu as 
free from all fault. 

M. Madeleine returned to Montreuil 
and found Fantine dying. As he was at 
her bedside, Javert entered to arrest him. 
In terror at Javert's approach, Fantine 
screamed aloud, and fell back dead. 

Valjean arranged her head on the pil- 
low as a mother does a child's, drew the 
string of her night-dress close, and en- 
closed her locks With her cap. One of 
her hands dropped over the bedside. 
He knelt to it, lifted it softly and kissed 
it. Then he drew himself up and turned 
to Javert, saying : 

"Now, I am your man." 

Javert lodged Valjean in the town jail. 

But that night Valjean broke the bars 
of his window and escaped. He fled to 
the rooms occupied by Sister Simplice, a 
nun of renowned purity and truthfulness, 
and concealed himself in a closet. Sister 
Simplice fell on her knees and engaged 
in prayer. The door opened and Javert 
entered. 

It was this Sister Simplice who had 
never told a lie in her life ; Javert knew 
this and venerated her on account of it. 

"Sister, are you alone here? " he 
demanded. 

Lifting her eyes the nun said : 

"lam." 



Oh, holy maid ! may this falsehood be 
recorded in paradise ! 

An hour after, a man, walking through 
fog and among the trees, rapidly left 
Montreuil in the direction of Paris. This 
was Jean Valjean. 

A little later Jean Valjean was rear- 
rested in Paris, tried, sentenced to death, 
and then the sentence commuted to life 
imprisonment in the galleys. He had 
not been there long, when, by almost 
superhuman exertion he saved the life 
of a sailor ; then himself fell into the 
sea and was apparently drowned. He 
was recorded as dead. But he made his 
escape, and was soon back near his old 
home, in quest of Fantine's child, whom 
he had promised to care for. 

He found her at Thenardier's in rags 
and poverty, brutally treated as a slave. 
By the offer of a large sum of money he 
got them to surrender her to him, and 
took her with him to Paris. He called 
her his grandchild — she was yet scarcely 
out of infancy — and lodged with her for 
a time in a ramshackle old house in the 
slums, known as the Gorbeau House, 
thinking they would be safe from detec- 
tion. But Javert was on his track and 
found him there. So Valjean and Cos- 
ette fled at night ; were pursued by 
Javert and the police ; by a desperate 
struggle got over a wall just in time, and 
hid themselves in a garden. It was the 
garden of a convent. The gardener, the 
only man there, proved to be a man 
whom Valjean, while Mayor of Montreuil, 
had befriended. He gave them shelter, 
and got Valjean engaged as his assistant, 
and Cosette taken in as a scholar in the 
convent school. In that safe retreat a 
life of peace and happiness began, and 
lasted for some years. 



FICTION. 



M. Marius, or, in full, Marius Pont- 
mercy, was the son of a Bonapartist 
officer who had fallen at Waterloo. Be- 
cause he revered his father's memory, 
he was repudiated by the rest of the 
family, who were staunch Royalists. 
Thus cast out to make his own way, he 
found himself in poverty, and came to 
lodge in the old Gorbean House. In his 
daily walks in the Luxemborg Gardens, 
he presently began to notice an elderly 
man of kindly and stalwart appearance, 
accompanied by a young girl. For a 
year he saw them frequently, and the 
girl was then growing toward woman- 
hood, and was ravishingly beautiful. 
In fine, he found himself in love with 
her, and she seemed not indifferent to 
him, though no word had passed between 
them. 

Then Valjean and Cosette — for it was 
they— took alarm. Valjean even imagined 
Marius to be a police spy, on their track. 
So one day they were missing from the 
garden, and Marius saw them no more, 
nor could he find them, though he searched 
and watched for them long and earnestly. 

In a room adjoining Marius's in the 
old house lived the Thenardiers, now in 
abject poverty, and calling themselves 
Jondrette. They devoted themselves to 
begging and crime, especially to wheed- 
ling charity out of rich people by false 
pretences. One day Marius, made sus- 
picious by strange noises, spied upon 
them through a crevice in the wall. He 
saw Valjean and Cosette come in and 
give them alms, having been decoyed 
thither by a begging letter. When they 
went away, Valjean promised to return 
in the evening, with money for their 
relief. Thereupon they called in a gang 
of four desperadoes, to rob him. Marius 



quickly hurried off to the police, and 
gave information of what he had seen 
and heard. 

Evening came. Valjean came. While 
he was solicitously inquiring after the 
needs of the beggars, four cut-throats 
entered, and after a desperate struggle 
bound him fast. Then Jondrette, or 
Thenardier, made him write a note to 
Cosette, asking her to come to him. 
Valjean did so, and Thenardier's wife 
went off with it to fetch her ; and came 
back in an hour to report that she had 
been sent to a false address. Valjean 
had done this to gain time, during which 
he had secretly loosened his bonds and 
freed himself. The ruffians were for a 
moment doubtful what to do. Then, to 
their consternation, the door opened, and 
Javert entered ! A platoon of police 
followed. The cut-throats were quickly 
pinioned. Then Javert turned to see 
the man who was to have been their 
victim, only to find that he had dis- 
appeared. 

So again Marius lost all track of his 
idol, for a weary time. But at last he 
found her, in the garden of the quiet 
home where she and her guardian lived 
in seclusion. He made bold to speak to 
her, to remind her of his long adoration, 
to tell her of his love for her. With her 
eyes she confessed her love for him. 
Then their lips met, and they were 
happy. 

It was for only a moment. The next, 
and the two fugitives were again driven 
to flight, and Marius was left disconso- 
late. He sought the grandfather who 
had repudiated him, begged for forgive- 
ness and for aid that he might marry 
Cosette. The old man refused. Then 
Marius flung himself into a revolt in the 



FICTION. 



445 



streets of Paris and sought death at the 
barricades, but in vain. Thenardier's 
oldest daughter, disguised as a man, fell 
at his side, but he was unharmed. Then 
he wrote a farewell note to Cosette, tell- 
ing her he must surely die in the next 
day's attack upon the barricade, and 
sent it to her by the hand of Gavroche, 
a street gamin. Gavroche delivered it, 
came back, and was killed in the fight. 
Valjean also came, and fought by the 
side of Marius. Javert had been taken 
prisoner, and doomed to death, and Val- 
jean was appointed his executioner. In- 
stead of killing him, he set him at liberty. 

"I would rather you killed me!" said 
Javert. 

At last the barricade was taken. But 
Valjean, carrying the wounded and un- 
conscious Marius in his arms, escaped, 
descended into the sewers for a hiding 
place from the relentless Javert, who 
was again on his track, and finally 
reached an open place on the river-bank, 
where he imagined himself secure. 

Then he turned and beheld Javert at 
his heels. He was so covered with dirt 
that Javert did not recognize him, but 
asked "Who are you ? " 

"I am Jean Valjean !" 

"What are you doing here ? Who is 
this man ? " 

He did not speak with his former con- 
tempt and rudeness. 

" It was about him that I was going to 
speak," said Valjean, his peculiar tone 
seeming to arouse Javert. "Dispose of 
me as you please, but help me to have 
him taken home. That is all I beg of 
you." 

Javert called a cab-driver. They found 
in Marius's pocket the address of his 
grandfather, M. Gillenormand, and took 



him thither, leaving him there almost 
dead. Then Valjean asked Javertanother 
favor, that he might revisit his own home 
for a few minutes. Javert assented, and 
when they reached the house, said, "Go 
in ; I will wait here." But when Valjean 
returned the street was deserted. Javert 
had disappeared. 

The police inspector walked away, 
slowly and half-dazed, to one of the 
bridges of the Seine. He was astounded 
by one thing, that Valjean should forgive 
him, and another petrified him, that he 
should pardon the convict. 

What was he to do now ? To liberate 
Valjean was bad, and so to leave him 
free. In the first case, the officer of 
authority fell lower than the galley- 
slave; in the second, a jail-bird soared 
higher than the trained hawk and struck 
his talons into him. In both cases, dis- 
honor to Javert. There was a fall in any 
course he chose. 

He suffered the strange pains of a con- 
science suddenly cured of dim vision. 
He saw what it was repugnant for him 
to see. He felt vacant, useless, wrenched 
from hisformer lines, diverted, discharged. 
For his authority was dead. There was 
no reason for him to exist. 

All at once he took off his hat and laid 
it on the flags this side of the balustrade. 

In the moment after, a tall, black figure, 
which might be taken by the beholder at 
a distance as a shade, appeared standing 
on the parapet, bent toward the Seine, 
then rose and fell straight into the 
shadows ; a dull splash was heard, the 
night alone was in the secret of the 
spasms of the obscurely struggling form 
disappearing under the surge. 

For a long time Marius lay near death. 
Then convalescence set in. His grand- 



446 



FICTION. 



father became perfectly reconciled with 
him, loved him enthusiastically; then 
one day enraptured him with the an- 
nouncement that he would consent to 
his marriage. 

"Yes ; you shall have your pretty little 
loved one," continued the old gentleman. 
"She has been calling every day, in the 
form of an old gentleman, eager to have 
the latest news of you. Since you were 
shot down, she has been spending her 
time weeping her eyes out and scraping 
lint for you. I have inquired about it. 
She lives in Homme-armee Street, at 
No. 7. Ha! ha! d'ye see the point we 
are at ? You long for her ? It shall not 
be for long! You shall have her." 

So in due time Marius and Cosette were 
married, and installed in the best rooms 
of the Gillenormand mansion. 

Valjean endowed Cosette with a for- 
tune of 600,000 francs. But under a 
pretext of illness did not attend the wed- 
ding, and after it went to live alone in 
his old home. 

Then, after a desperate battle with 
himself, he told Marius who he was — an 
ex-convict, now liable to be sent back to 
the galleys. Marius recoiled from him 
in horror. But it was finally agreed that 
Valjean should come every day, if he 
wished, to call on Cosette, and that the 
secret should be inviolably kept. Marius 
supposed that Valjean had murdered 
"M. Madeleine" and stolen his for- 
tune, and had also killed Javert, and 
he accordingly regarded him with loath- 
ing, and thought of returning to him all 



the fortune with which he had endowed 
Cosette. 

But one day Thenardier called upon 
him, to demand money for telling him a 
great secret about Valjean. Marius scorn- 
fully told him he knew it all, already. 
Then, in his confusion, Thenardier blurted 
out the truth, that Valjean had not mur- 
dered "M. Madeleine," but was himself 
identical with him, and had not killed 
Javert, who had been found drowned. 
Marius could not restrain a cry of delight. 

"Well, then, this wretch is an admir- 
able man ! That fortune was truly his ! 
He is Madeleine, the saver of the coun- 
try — its providence ! He is Javert's 
deliverer ! He is a hero — a saint ! " 

Forthwith Marius and Cosette hastened 
to Valjean, to atone with their love for 
all the doubts and ill-feelings Marius had 
cherished. They found him ill, indeed 
dying. Marius told him all he had 
learned, and begged forgiveness for his 
doubts. Valjean, happy in their perfect 
confidence and love, took them to his 
heart and blessed them. 

"I am dying happy," he said. "Let 
me lay my hands on your beloved 
heads—" 

Cosette and Marius fell on their knees, 
suffocated with tears, and on each guided 
a hand of Valjean's. Those august 
hands did not move again. 

He had thrown his head back, and the 
lustre from the two candles, illumined 
it; the white face was upturned to the 
heavens. He let them cover his hands 
with kisses. He was dead. 




DON QUIXOTE CHARGING THE WINDMILL 



DON QUIXOTE. 

By Miguel de Cervantes. 



The First adventure— The Windmills— Mambrino's Helmet— Dulcinea 

DEL TOBOSO— THE KNIGHT OF THE WOODS— MONTESINOS' CAVE 

— THE COUNTESS OF TRIFALDI — SANCHO AND HIS 

ISLAND-THE ENCHANTED HEAD— THE END 

OF THE KNIGHT'S CAREER. 



IN a certain village of La Mancha there 
lived in former years an old-fashioned 
gentleman who was much given to 
poring over books of romance and 
reading the doings of knights in the days 
of chivalry. His name was Quixada, 
which signifies Lantern-Jaws. His whole 
household consisted of a housekeeper of 
about forty years, a niece of twenty, and 
a man of all work. He was a worthy 
man, but he read these romances by day 
and night until they seemed as true to 
him as the most authentic history, and 
until he resolved himself to enter upon 
the career of a knight-errant, in emula- 
tion of Amadis de Gaul. 

So he scoured up an old suit of armor 
that had belonged to his great-grand- 
father, filling out a lacking part of the 
helmet with pasteboard and bits of iron. 
Then he got his old horse out of the 
stable, an ancient rack of skin and 
bones, and gave him the name of Rozin- 
ante, from Rozin, a common pack-horse, 
and ante, before. He began to call him- 
self Don Quixote de la Mancha. Finally, 
since every knight must have a lady in 
whose name to fight, he selected a young 



peasant girl of that neighborhood, named 
Aldonza Lorenzo, and called her the 
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. 

Thus prepared for a chivalric career, 
he set forth and traveled all day without 
meeting with any adventure. 

Toward the evening he and his horse 
being heartily tired and almost famished, 
Don Quixote looked about him, in hopes 
to discover some castle, or at least some 
shepherd's cottage, there to repose and 
refresh himself ; and at last, near the 
road which he kept, he espied an inn, a 
most welcome sight to his longing eyes. 
Hastening toward it with all the speed 
he could, he got thither just at the close 
of the evening. There stood by chance 
at the inn-door two young female adven- 
turers, who were going to Seville with 
some carriers that happened to take up 
their lodgings there that very evening ; 
and as whatever our knight-errant saw, 
thought, or imagined was all of a roman- 
tic cast, and appeared to him altogether 
after the manner of his favorite books, 
he no sooner saw the inn but he fancied 
it to be a castle fenced with four towers, 
and lofty pinnacles glittering with silver, 



449 



4$o 



FICTION. 



together with a deep moat, drawbridge, 
and all those other appurtenances pecu- 
liar to such kind of places. 

When he came near it he stopped 
awhile at a distance from the gate, ex- 
pecting that some dwarf would appear on 
the battlements and sound his trumpet 
to give notice of the arrival of a knight ; 
but finding that nobody came, and that 
Rozinante was for making the best of his 
way to the stable, he advanced to the 
inn-door, saw there the two country girls, 
who appeared to him to be beautiful 
damsels or lovely dames taking their 
pleasure at the castle-gate. 

It happened just at this time that a 
swineherd, who in a stubble hard by was 
tending a drove of hogs, blew his horn, 
as was his custom, to call them together; 
and instantly Don Quixote's imagination 
represented to him that a dwarf gave the 
signal of his arrival. With great satis- 
faction, therefore, he rode up to the inn. 
The women, perceiving a man armed 
with lance and buckler, were frightened, 
and about to retreat into the house. But 
Don Quixote, guessing at their fear by 
their flight, lifted up his pasteboard visor, 
and discovering his withered and dusty 
visage, with gentle voice and respectful 
demeanor thus accosted them : 

" Fly not, ladies, nor fear any dis- 
courtesy ; for the order of knighthood, 
which I profess, forbids my offering in- 
jury to any one, much less to damsels of 
such exalted rank as your presence de- 
notes you to be." The women stared at 
him with all their eyes, endeavoring to 
find out his face, which the sorry beaver 
almost covered, and could not help laugh- 
ing so loudly that Don Quixote was 
offended, and said to them, "Modesty is 
\ e< oming in beauty, and excessive laugh- 



ter, proceeding from a slight cause, is 
folly. This I mention not as a reproach, 
by which I may incur your resentment ; 
on the contrary, I have no wish but to 
do you service." 

This language, which they did not 
understand, and the extraordinary ap- 
pearance of the knight, increased their 
laughter, which also increased his dis- 
pleasure, and he would probably have 
shown it in a less civil way but for the 
timely arrival of the innkeeper. He was 
a man whose burden of fat inclined him 
to peace and quietness, yet when he 
observed such a strange disguise of 
human shape in his old armor and equip- 
age, he could hardly forbear laughter ; 
but, having fear of such a war-like 
appearance before his eyes, he resolved 
to give him good words, and therefore 
accosted him civilly. 

"Sir Knight," he said, "if your wor- 
ship be disposed to alight, you will fail 
of nothing here but of a bed ; as for all 
other accommodations, you may be sup- 
plied to your mind." 

So they took the would-be knight in 
and entertained him well, and in turn 
his curious ways gave them much enter- 
tainment in return. It was a source of 
great mirth to see him eat ; for his 
hands being occupied in keeping his 
helmet on and the beaver up, he had no 
means of feeding himself, and the office 
was performed by one of the ladies. To 
give him drink would have been utterly 
impossible, had not the innkeeper bored 
a reed, and, putting one end to the 
knight's mouth, poured in the wine 
leisurely at the other ; but all this Don 
Quixote patiently endured rather than 
cut the lacings of his helmet. While he 
was at supper a pig-driver happened to 



FICTION. 



45* 



sound his cane-trumpet, or whistle of 
reeds, four or five times as he came near 
the inn, which made Don Quixote the 
more positive that he was in a famous 
castle, where he was entertained with 
music at supper, that the country girls 
were great ladies, and the innkeeper the 
governor of the castle, which made him 
applaud himself for his resolution, and 
his setting out on such an account. 

A few days later, as the knight, now 
attended by his faithful man of all work, 
Sancho Panza, whom he had made his 
squire, he discovered some thirty or forty 
windmills in the plain ; and as soon as 
the knight had spied them, "Fortune," 
cried he, " directs our affairs better than 
we could have wished ; look yonder, 
Sancho, there are at least thirty outra- 
geous giants, whom I intend to encoun- 
ter ; and having deprived them of life, we 
will begin to enrich ourselves with their 
spoils ; for they are lawful prize ; and the 
extirpation of that cursed brood will be 
an acceptable service to heaven." 

11 What giants ? " quoth Sancho Panza. 

"Those whom thou seest yonder," 
answered Don Quixote, " with their 
long extended arms ; some of that de- 
tested race have arms of so immense a 
size that sometimes they reach two 
leagues in length." 

"Pray, look better, sir, "quoth Sancho; 
"those things yonder are not giants, but 
windmills, and the arms are their sails, 
which, being whirled about by the wind, 
make the mill go." 

"'Tis a sign," cried Don Quixote, 
"thou art but little acquainted with 
adventures ! I tell thee they are giants ; 
and therefore if thou art afraid, go aside 
and say thy prayers, for I am resolved 
to engage in combat with them all." 



This said, he clapped spurs to his 
horse without giving ear to his squire, 
who bawled out to him, and assured him 
that they were windmills, and not giants. 
But he was so fully possessed with a 
strong conceit of the contrary that he 
did not so much as hear his squire, nor 
was he sensible of what they were, al- 
though he was already very near them. 

"Stand, cowards!" cried he as loud 
as he could ; " stand your ground, ig- 
noble creatures, and fly not basely from 
a single knight, who dares encounter you 
all." 

At the same time, the wind rising, 
the mill-sails began to move, which, 
when Don Quixote spied, "Base mis- 
creants," cried he, "though you move 
more arms than the giant Briareus, you 
shall pay for you arrogance." 

He most devoutly recommended him- 
self to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her 
assistance in this perilous adventure ; 
and so, covering himself with his shield 
and couching his lance, he rushed with 
Rozinante's utmost speed upon the first 
windmill he could come at, and running 
his lance into the sail, the wind whirled 
it about with such swiftness that the 
rapidity of the motion presently broke 
the lance into shivers, and hurled away 
both knight and horse along with it, till 
down he fell, rolling a good way off in 
the field. Sancho Panza ran as fast as 
his ass could drive to help his master, 
whom he found lying, and not able to stir. 

" Did not I give your worship fair 
warning ? " cried he ; " did not I tell you 
they were windmills, and that nobody 
could think otherwise, unless he had also 
windmills in his head ? " 

" Peace, friend Sancho," replied Don 
Quixote ; " there is nothing so subject to 



452 



FICTION. 



the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am 
verily persuaded that cursed necromancer 
Freston, who carried away my study and 
my books, has transformed these giants 
into windmills, to deprive me of the honor 
of the victory: such is his inveterate mal- 
ice against me : but in the end, all his per- 
nicious wiles and stratagems shall prove 
ineffectual against the prevailing edge of 
my sword." 

" So let it be," replied Sancho. 

The knight's fancy now began to run 
altogether on finding his lady, Dulcinea 
del Toboso, and Sancho determined to 
try to persuade him that the next peasant 
girl they might meet was she. So pres- 
ently, while riding a little ahead of his 
master, he espied three country girls 
coming toward him, each mounted on a 
young ass. He hastened back, and ex- 
claimed in joy : 

" Your worship has only to clap spurs 
to Rozinante, and get out upon the 
plain to see the lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso, who, with a couple of her 
damsels, is coming to pay your worship 
a visit." 

"Gracious Heavens!" exclaimed Don 
Quixote, "what dost thou say? Take 
care that thou beguilest not my real sor- 
row by a counterfeit joy." 

"What should 1 get," answered San- 
cho, " by deceiving you worship, only to 
be found out the next moment ? Come, 
sir, put on, and you will see the princess, 
our mistress, all arrayed and adorned — 
in short, like herself. She and her dam- 
sels are one blaze of flaming gold ; all 
strings of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, 
all cloth of tissue above ten hands deep; 
their hair loose about their shoulders, 
like so many sunbeams blowing about in 
the wind; and, what is more, they come 



mounted upon three pied belfreys, the 
finest you ever laid eyes on." 

"Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho," 
quoth Don Quixote. 

"Well, well," answered Sancho, "bel- 
freys and palfreys are much the same 
thing; but let them be mounted how 
they will, they are sure the finest crea- 
tures one would wish to see, especially 
my mistress the princess, Dulcinea, who 
dazzles one's senses." 

"Let us go, son Sancho," answered 
Don Quixote; "and, as a reward for 
this welcome news, I bequeath to thee 
the choicest spoils I shall gain in my 
next adventure." 

They were now got out of the wood, 
and saw the three girls very near. Don 
Quixote looked eagerly along the road 
toward Toboso, and seeing nobody but 
the three girls, he asked Sancho, in 
much agitation, whether they were out 
of the city when he left them. 

"Out of the city ! " answered Sancho; 
"are your worship's eyes in the nape of 
your neck that you do not see them now 
before you, shining like the sun at noon- 
day ? " 

"I see only three country girls," an- 
swered Don Quixote, " on three asses." 

"Now keep me from mischief!" an- 
swered Sancho ; " is it possible that three 
belfreys, or how do you call them, white 
as the driven snow, should look to you 
like asses ? As I am alive, you shall 
pluck off this beard of mine if it be so." 

"I tell thee, friend Sancho," answered 
Don Quixote, "that it is as certain they 
are asses, as that I am Don Quixote and 
thou Sancho Panza ; at least so they 
seem to me." 

"Sir," quoth Sancho, "say not such 
a thing; but snuff those eyes of yours. ; 



FICTION. 



453 



and come and pay reverence to the mis- 
tress of your soul." 

So saying he advanced forward to 
meet the peasant girls; and, alighting 
from Dapple, he laid hold of one of their 
asses by the halter and, bending both 
knees to the ground, said to the girl, 
"Queen, princess and duchess of beauty, 
let your haughtiness and greatness be 
pleased to receive into your grace and 
good-liking your captive knight, who 
stands there turned into stone, all dis- 
order and without any pulse, to find 
himself before your magnificent pres- 
ence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire, 
and he is that wayworn knight Don 
Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called 
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance." 

Don Quixote had now placed himself 
on his knees by Sancho, and with wild 
and staring eyes surveyed her whom 
Sancho called his queen, and seeing 
nothing but a peasant girl, with a broad 
face, flat nose, coarse and homely, he 
was so confounded that he could not 
open his lips. The girls were also sur- 
prised to find themselves stopped by two 
men so different in aspect, and both on 
their knees; but the lady who was 
stopped, breaking silence, said in an 
angry tone, "Get out of the road, plague 
on ye ! " and let us pass by, for we are 
in haste." 

"O princess and universal lady of 
Toboso!" cried Sancho, "is not your 
magnificent heart melting to see, on his 
knees before your sublimated presence, 
the pillar and prop of knight-errantry ? " 

" Haydey ! what's here to do ? " cried 
another of the girls; "look how your 
small gentry come to jeer us poor country 
girls as if we could not give them as 
good as they bring. Go, get off about 



your business, and let us mind ours, and 
so speed you well." 

So the girls hastened on their way, 
leaving the knight disconsolate, for he was 
now persuaded that he was bewitched 
and thus prevented from seeing his lady 
in her own proper shape. 

Not long after this they fell upon a 
strange knight in a great wood who was 
sighing over his love for his lady, 
Casildea. Don Quixote engaged him 
for a time in pleasant converse, but soon 
the Knight of the Woods assumed a 
boastful tone. 

"1 have," he said, "traversed the 
greatest part of Spain, and have van- 
quished divers knights who have had the 
presumption to contradict me. But what 
1 value myself most upon is having van- 
quished, in single combat, that renowned 
knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and 
made him confess that my Casildea is 
more beautiful than his Dulcinea ; and I 
reckon that, in this conquest alone, I 
have vanquished all the knights in the 
world ; for this Don Quixote has con- 
quered them all, and I, having overcome 
him, his glory, his fame, and his honor 
are consequently transferred to me. 
All the innumerable exploits of the 
said Don Quixote I therefore consider 
as already mine, and placed to my ac- 
count." 

Don Quixote was amazed at the asser- 
tions of the Knight of the Wood, and had 
been every moment at the point of giving 
him the lie ; but he restrained himself, 
that he might convict him of falsehood 
from his own mouth ; and therefore, he 
said very calmly, " That you may have 
vanquished, Sir Knight, most of the 
knights-errant of Spain, or even of the 
whole world, I will not dispute; but that 



454 



FICTION. 



you have conquered Don Quixote de la 
Mancha 1 have much reason to doubt. 
Some one resembling him, I allow, it 
might have been ; though, in truth, I 
believe there are not many like him. ,, 

"How say you?" cried he of the 
Wood; "as sure as I am here alone, I 
fought with Don Quixote, vanquished 
him, and made him surrender to me! He 
is a man of an erect figure, withered face, 
long and meagre limbs, grizzle-haired, 
hawk-nose, with large black moustachios, 
and styles himself the Knight of the Rue- 
ful Countenance. The name of his squire 
is Sancho Panza ; he oppresses the back 
and governs the reins of a famous steed 
called Rozinante — in a word the mistress 
of his thoughts is one Dulcinea del To- 
boso, formerly called Aldonza Lorenzo, 
as my Casildea, being of Andalusia, is 
now distinguished by the name of Ca- 
sildea de Vandalia. And now, if I have 
not sufficiently proved what I have said, 
here is my sword, which shall make in- 
credulity itself believe." 

" Softly, Sir Knight," said Don Quix- 
ote, "and hear what I have to say. You 
must know that this Don Quixote you 
speak of is the dearest friend I have in 
the world, insomuch that he is, as it were, 
another self ; and notwithstanding the 
very accurate description you have given 
of him, I am convinced, by the evidence 
of my senses, that you have never sub- 
dued him. It is, indeed, possible that, as 
he is continually persecuted by enchan- 
ters, some one of these may have as- 
sumed his shape, and suffered himself to 
be vanquished, in order to defraud him 
of the fame which his exalted feats of 
chivalry have acquired him over the 
whole face of the earth. A proof of their 
malice occurred but a few days since, 



when they transformed the figure and 
face of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso 
into the form of a mean rustic wench. 
And now if, after all, you doubt the truth 
of what I say, behold the true Don Quix- 
ote himself before you, ready to convince 
you of your error by force of arms, on 
foot or on horseback, or in whatever 
manner you please." 

He then rose up, and grasping his 
sword, awaited the determination of the 
Knight of the Wood, who very calmly 
said in reply, "A good paymaster wants 
no pledge: he who could vanquish Signor 
Don Quixote under transformation may 
well hope to make him yield in his proper 
person. But as knights-errant should by 
no means perform their feats in the dark, 
like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for 
daylight, that the sun may witness our 
exploits; and let the condition of our 
combat be, that the conquered shall re- 
main entirely at the mercy and disposal 
of the conqueror ; provided that he re- 
quire nothing of him but what a knight 
may with honor submit to." 

When the morning was come Don 
Quixote perceived his opponent to be 
clad in armor set all over with mirrors, 
whence he was properly to be called the 
Knight of the Mirrors. They met in 
battle, and Don Quixote quickly over- 
threw his opponent, and would have 
slain him had not the latter revealed 
himself as one of his old friends and 
neighbors, who had played this trick 
upon him in hope of curing him of his 
folly. Don Quixote then let him go, 
and pursued his own way as before. 

Don Quixote one day placed himself 
under the guidance of a young student 
who promised to show him the wonders 
of the famous cave of Montesinos. 



FICTION. 



455 



Sancho tried in vain to dissuade him from 
entering so dangerous a place. The 
knight had himself bound to the end of a 
stout rope and lowered into the cave, 
which was a dreadful black abyss. 
After half an hour they pulled him up 
again, and found him fast asleep. With 
much difficulty they awakened him, 
whereupon he complained that they had 
disturbed him in the most delightful life 
man ever led, which he now perceived 
to have been only a dream. 

" About twelve or fourteen men's 
depths," said he, "in the profundity of 
this cavern, on the right hand, there is a 
concavity wide enough to contain a large 
wagon, mules and all. I entered, and 
coiling up the cord, sat upon it very mel- 
ancholy, and thinking how I should most 
conveniently get down to the bottom, 
having nobody to guide or support me. 
While I thus sat pensive, and lost in 
thought, insensibly, without any pre- 
vious drowsiness, 1 found myself sur- 
prised by sleep ; and after that, not 
knowing how nor which way I wakened, 
I unexpectedly found myself in the finest 
and most delightful meadow that ever 
nature adorned with her beauties, or 
the most inventive fancy could ever 
imagine. Now, that 1 might be sure this 
was neither a dream nor an illusion, I 
rubbed my eyes, felt several parts of my 
body, and convinced myself that I was 
really awake with the use of all my 
senses, and all the faculties of my 
understanding sound and active as at 
this moment. 

" Presently I discovered a sumptuous 
palace, of which the wall seemed all of 
transparent crystal. The spacious gates 
opening, there came out toward me a 
venerable old man, clad in a sad-colored 



robe, so long that it swept the ground ; 
on his breast and shoulders he had a 
green satin tippet, after the manner of 
those worn in colleges. On his head he 
wore a black Milan cap, and his broad 
hoary beard reached down below his 
middle. He had no kind of weapon in 
his hands, but a rosary of beads about 
the bigness of walnuts, and his credo 
beads appeared as large as ordinary 
ostrich-eggs. The awful and grave 
aspect, the pace, the port and good- 
ly presence of this old man, each of 
them apart, and much more altogether, 
struck me with veneration and astonish- 
ment. He came up to me, and, without 
any previous ceremony, embracing me 
close, ' It is a long time/ said he, 'most 
renowned knight, Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, that we who dwell in this en- 
chanted solitude have hoped to see you 
here ; that you may inform the upper 
world of the surprising prodigies con- 
cealed from human knowledge in this 
subterranean hollow, called the cave of 
Montesinos — an enterprise reserved alone 
for your insuperable heart and stupendous 
resolution. Go with me, then, thou most 
illustrious knight, and behold the wonders 
inclosed within the transparent castle, of 
which I am the perpetual governor and 
chief warden, being the same individual 
Montesinos from whom this cavern took 
its name.' 

"No sooner had the reverend old man 
let me know who he was, but I entreated 
him to tell me whether it was true or no, 
that, at his friend Durandarte's dying 
request, he had taken out his heart with 
a small dagger, the very moment he 
expired, and carried it to his mistress 
Belerma, as the story was current in the 
world. 



45 6 



FICTION. 



"'It is literally true,' answered the 
old gentleman, ' except that single cir- 
cumstance of the dagger ; for I used 
neither a small nor a large dagger on 
this occasion, but a well-polished poniard, 
as sharp as an awl.' 

"The venerable Montesinos having 
conducted me into the crystal palace, led 
me into a spacious ground-room, exceed- 
ing cool, and all of alabaster. In the 
middle of it stood a marble tomb, that 
seemed a masterpiece of art ; upon it 
lay a knight extended all at length, not 
of stone or brass, as on other monuments, 
but pure flesh and bones ; he covered 
the region of his heart with his right 
hand, which seemed to me very full of 
sinews, a sign of the great strength of 
the body to which it belonged. Mont- 
esinos, observing that I viewed the spec- 
tacle with surprise, 'Behold,' said he, 
'the flower and mirror of all the living 
and valiant knights of his age, my friend 
Durandarte, who, together with me and 
many others, of both sexes, are kept 
here enchanted by Merlin, the British 
magician. Here, I say, we are enchanted ; 
but how and for what cause no man can 
tell, though time, I hope, will shortly 
reveal it. But the most wonderful part 
of my fortune is this: I am as certain as 
that the sun now shines that Durandarte 
died in my arms; and that with these 
hands I took out his heart, which weighed 
above two pounds, a sure mark of his 
courage; for, by the rules of natural 
philosophy, the most valiant men have 
still the biggest hearts. Nevertheless, 
though this knight really died, he still 
complains and sighs sometimes as if he 
were alive.' 

"Scarce had Montesinos spoke these 
words, but the miserable Durandarte 



cried out aloud, 'O! cousin Montesinos, 
the last and dying request of your de- 
parting friend was to take my heart out 
of my breast with a poniard or a dagger, 
and carry it to Belerma.' The venerable 
Montesinos, hearing this, fell on his knees 
before the afflicted knight, and with tears 
in his eyes, 'Long, long ago,' said he, 
' Durandarte, thou dearest of my kins- 
men, have I performed what you enjoined 
me on that bitter fatal day when you 
expired. I took out your heart with all 
imaginable care, and hasted away with 
it to France, as soon as I had committed 
your dear remains to the bosom of the 
earth. To confirm this truth yet further, 
at the first place where I stopped from 
Roncesvalles, I laid a little salt upon 
your heart, to preserve it, till I presented 
it into the hands of Belerma, who, with 
you and me, and Guadiana your squire, 
as also Ruydera (the lady's woman) with 
her seven daughters, her two nieces, and 
many others of your friends and ac- 
quaintance, is here confined by the ne- 
cromantic charms of the magician Merlin; 
and though it be now above five hundred 
years since we were first conveyed into 
this enchanted castle we are still alive, 
except Ruydera, her daughters and nieces, 
who by the favor of Merlin, that pitied 
their tears, were turned into so many 
lakes, still extant in the world of the 
living, and in the province of La Mancha, 
distinguished by the name of the lakes 
of Ruydera. But now I have other news 
to tell you, which, though perhaps it may 
not assuage your sorrows, yet I am sure 
it will not increase them. Open your 
eyes, and behold in your presence that 1 
mighty knight, of whom Merlin the sage 
has foretold so many wonders: that Don 
Quixote de la Mancha, I mean, who has 



en 

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FICTION. 



459 



not only restored to the world the func- 
tion of knight-errantry, that has lain so 
long in oblivion, but advanced it to 
greater fame that it could boast in any 
former age. It is by his power that we 
may expect to see the charm dissolved, 
which keeps us here confined; for great 
performances are properly reserved for 
great personages.' 

11 ' And should it not be so? ' answered 
the grieving Durandarte, with a faint and 
languishing voice; 'should it not be so, 
I say? Oh, cousin ! patience, and shuffle 
the cards.' 

"Then turning on one side, without 
speaking a word more, he relapsed into 
his usual silence. 

"After this I was alarmed with piteous 
howling and crying, which, mixed with 
lamentable sighs and groans, obliged me 
to turn about to see whence it proceeded. 
Then through the crystal wall I saw a 
mournful procession of most beautiful 
damsels, all in black, marching in two 
ranks, with turbans on their heads after 
the Turkish fashion ; and last of all came 
a majestic lady, dressed also in mourn- 
ing, with a long white veil that reached 
from her head down to the ground. 
Montesinos informed me that the proces- 
sion consisted of Durandarte's and Be- 
lerma's servants, who were enchanted 
there with their master and mistress ; 
but that the last was Belerma herself, 
who with her attendants used four days 
in the week constantly thus to sing their 
dirges over the heart and body of his 
cousin ; and that though Belerma ap- 
peared a little haggard at that juncture, 
occasioned by the grief she bore in her 
own heart, for that which she carried in 
her hand; yet had I seen her before her 
misfortunes had sunk her eyes and tar- 



nished her complexion, I must have 
owned that even the celebrated Dulcinea 
del Toboso, so famous in La Mancha, 
and over the whole universe, could scarce 
have vied with her in gracefulness and 
beauty. 

" ' Hold there, good Signor Montesinos, 
said I. ' You know that comparisons are 
odious, therefore no more comparing, I 
beseech you ; but go on with your story. 
The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what 
she is, and the Lady Belerma is what she 
is, and has been ; so no more upon that 
subject.' 

"'I beg your pardon,' answered Mon- 
tesinos; 'Signor Don Quixote, 1 might 
have guessed you were the Lady Dulci- 
nea's knight, and therefore I ought to 
have bit my tongue off sooner than to 
have compared her to anything lower 
than heaven itself.' 

"This satisfaction, which I thought 
sufficient from the great Montesinos, 
stifled the resentment I else had shown, 
for hearing my mistress compared to 
Belerma." 

"Nay, marry," quoth Sancho, "I 
wonder you did not give the old fellow a 
hearty kicking! How could you leave 
one hair on his chin ? " 

"No, no, Sancho," answered Don 
Quixote, "there is always a respect due 
to our seniors, though they be no knights; 
but most when they are such, and under 
the oppression of enchantment. How- 
ever, I am satisfied that in what discourse 
passed between us, I took care not to 
have anything that looked like an affront 
fixed upon me." 

"But, sir," asked the scholar, "how 
could you see and hear so many strange 
things in so little time ? I cannot con- 
ceive how you could do it." 



46o 



FICTION, 



"How long," said Don Quixote, "do 
you reckon that I have been in the 
cave?" 

"A little above an hour," answered 
Sancho. 

"That is impossible," said Don Quix- 
ote, "for I saw morning and evening, 
and evening and morning, three times 
since; so that I could not be absent 
less than three days from this upper 
world." 

"Ay, ay," quoth Sancho, " my master 
is in the right; for these enchantments, 
that have the greatest share in all his 
concerns, may make that seem three 
days and three nights to him which is 
but an hour to other people." 

"It must be so," said Don Quixote. 

"I hope, sir," said the scholar, "you 
have eaten something in all that time." 

"Not one morsel," replied Don Quix- 
ote; "neither have had the least desire 
to eat, or so much as thought of it all the 
while." 

"Do not they that are enchanted 
sometimes eat ? " asked the scholar. 

"They never do," answered Don 
Quixote. 

"Do they never sleep either?" said 
Sancho. 

"Never," said Don Quixote ; "at least 
they never closed their eyes while I was 
among them, nor 1 either." 

"This makes good the saying," quoth 
Sancho, "'Tell me thy company, and I 
will tell thee what thou art.' Troth! 
you have all been enchanted together. 
No wonder if you neither eat nor slept, 
since you were in the land of those that 
always watch and fast. But, sir, would 
you have me speak as I think ? and pray 
do not take it in ill part, for if I believe 
one word of all you have said — " 



"What do you mean, friend?" said 
the student. "Do you think the noble 
Don Quixote would be guilty of a lie ? 
and if he had a mind to stretch a little, 
could he, think you, have had leisure to 
frame such a number of stories in so 
short a time ? " 

"I do not think that my master would 
lie neither," said Sancho. 

"What do ye think then, sir? "said 
Don Quixote. 

"Well, truly, sir," quoth Sancho, "I 
do believe that this same cunning man, 
this Merlin, that bewitched or enchanted, 
as you call it, all that rabble of people 
you talk of, may have crammed and en- 
chanted, some way or other, all that you 
have tolo us, and have yet to tell us, 
into your noddle." 

Our worthy pair one day met at the 
palace of a duke a veiled lady who 
called herself the Countess Trifaldi, and 
who related a long story of grievances. 
She was in the power of a wicked ma- 
gician, who had condemned her and her 
ladies to wear great beards upon their 
faces, and they were to be freed from 
the spell only by some gallant knight 
undertaking a journey to the distant 
land where the conjuror dwelt and over- 
coming him. This journey was to be ac- 
complished on a magical horse, which 
would carry both the knight and his 
squire, and would fly through the air in 
obedience to their will. Don Quixote 
and Sancho mounted. The attendants 
forced air upon them from a great bel- 
lows, and thus persuaded the Don that 
he was flying through the air at a pro- 
digious pace. Other shrewd devices in- 
creased the delusion, and as the knight 
never once looked down he was con- 
vinced that he had ridden thousands of 



FICTION. 



461 



miles through the air, though the image 
of a horse on which he sat did not really 
move an inch. At last the horse, which 
was filled with gas, was made to explode. 
The two riders were gently thrown to 
the ground, and then the knight was 
made to understand that his mission had 
succeeded through the mere attempt to 
carry it out. 

The success of this trick mightily 
pleased the duke and duchess, and they 
resolved to try another upon the credu- 
lous pair. So they told Sancho he was 
to be made governor of a certain island, 
to which the duke would send him. The 
fat squire was much pleased at this, and 
was eager to depart. 

Don Quixote gave Sancho luuch good 
advice about the manner in which he 
should administer the government of his 
island, and ended with saying : 

"If, Sancho, thou wilt observe these 
precepts and rules thy days will be long, 
and thy fame eternal, thy recompense 
full, and thy felicity unspeakable. Thou 
shalt match thy children as it may 
pleas? thee ; they and their children 
shall inherit titles ; thou shalt live in 
peace and in favor with all men : and at 
the end of thy life death shall find thee 
in a sweet and mature old age, and thy 
eyes shall be closed by the tender and 
pious hands of thy children's grandchil- 
dren." 

After many other marvellous ad- 
ventures the knight determined to become 
a shepherd and end his days in quiet 
pastoral pursuits. At this his old neigh- 
bors were rejoiced, for they hoped thus 
to see an end made of his romantic follies ! 
which were continually bringing him 
into danger of life and limb. But before ; 
he could carry his resolution into effect ! 



he fell ill with a fever. In spite of all 
the doctor could do he steadily failed 
and his end seemed near at hand. One 
day he awoke as if from a sound sleep 
and began to praise God. 

The niece, hearkening very attentively 
to these words of her uncle, and finding 
more sense in them than there was in 
his usual talk, at least since he had fallen 
ill, "What do you say, sir ? " said she; 
"has anything extraordinary happened ? 
What mercies are these you mention ?" 

"Mercies," answered he, "that 
Heaven has this moment vouchsafed to 
show me, in spite of all my iniquities. 
My judgment is returned, clear and un- 
disturbed, and that cloud of ignorance is 
now removed which the continual read- 
ing of those books of knight-errantry had 
cast over my understanding. I am only 
sorry the discovery happens so late, 
when I want time to make amends by 
those studies that should enlighten my 
soul, and prepare me for futurity. I find, 
niece, my end approaches; but I would 
have it such, that though my life has got 
me the character of a madman, I may 
deserve a better at my death. I am no 
longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but 
A.onzo Quixano, the same whom the 
world, for his fair behavior, had been 
formerly pleased to call The Good. I 
now declare myself an enemy to Amadis 
de Gaul, and his whole generation; all 
foolish stories of knight-errantry I detest. 
I have a true sense of the danger of 
reading them, and of all my past follies; 
and, through Heaven's mercy and my 
own experience, I abhor them." 

Thus being at last freed from his follies 
and delusions he called for a clergyman 
and made his will, disposing of his estate 
in a sensible and proper fashion. He left 



462 



FICTION. 



the bulk of his property to his niece, but 
with this proviso: 

"Item, It is my will, that if my niece 
Antonia Quixano be inclinable to marry, 
it be with none but a person who, upon 
strict inquiry, shall be found never to 
have read a book of knight-errantry in 
his life ; and in case it appears that he 
has been conversant in such books, and 
that she persists in her resolution to 
marry him, she is then to forfeit all right 
and title to my bequest, which, in such 
case, my executors are hereby empowered 



to dispose of to pious uses, as they shall 
think most proper." 

Having finished the will, he died in 
his bed quietly, and like a good Chris- 
tian. 

Thus died that ingenious gentleman, 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose native 
place Cid Hamet has not thought fit 
directly to mention, with design that all 
the towns and villages in La Mancha 
should contend for the honor of giving 
him birth, as the seven cities of Greece 
did for Homer. 







.J? 



BOOK Vffl. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD, 






.<& 




BUILDING OF THE PYRAMIDS 



Book VIIL 
History of the World 



CHAPTER L 



BEFORE THE CHRISTIAN ERA. 
ASSYRIA— MEDIA— BABYLON— ASIA MINOR — SYRIA— EGYPT— CARTHAGE — PERSIA— WAR 

with greece— the fall of persia— early greece— the age of pericles— 
The Fall of Greece— Alexander the Great— End of the Mace- 
donian EMPIRE— ORIGIN OF ROME— THE KINGS— THE REPUBLIC— 

coriolanus and clncinnatus — the gauls— war 

with Carthage— Domestic Troubles— 

the triumvirs-the empire. 




'HERE the human race was cradled, and where civilization had its origin, 
is a secret of the unknown past. Asia, Africa and Central America all 
have claims to the distinction. The consensus of accessible evidence, 
however, places the earliest organized society on the shores of the Eastern Mediter- 
ranean Sea and of the Persian Gulf. The earliest of the Asiatic Monarchies sprang 
up in the great plane at the head of the Persian Gulf. Here Moses places the 
first " kingdom," and a Chaldean Monarchy was established probably as early as 
2000 B. C. The Hebrew records give Nimrod as the founder of this kingdom. 
There were forty-nine Chaldean monarchs, whose reigns covered the space of from 
about 2000 to 1543 B. C. They were the builders of the most ancient edifices now 
existing in that country, and their date was long before the time of Sennacherib and 
Nebuchadnezzar. 

After the years had borne sway they were succeeded by Arabs, who held the 
dominion for 245 years, when they too were superseded by the Assyrians. These 
ruled for 526 years, and then the Chaldeans became free and independent again. 

Assyria* 

The beginning of the Assyrian Empire is lost in the mists of antiquity. The 
first great king of whom much is known was Sardanapalus. He was a great con- 
queror, who fought many foreign wars in Armenia, Syria and Babylonia, received 
the submission of the chief Phcenican towns and built a great palace at Calah. 
Ivalush, about 800 B. C, was another warlike monarch. He conquered Damascus, 
and received tribute from Samaria, Philistia and Edom. Babylon also acknowledged 
23 465 



466 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

his sovereignty. His wife bore the name of Semiramis. The closing era of the 
Assyrian monarchy was a splendid one, but came to a sudden end. Among its 
kings were Sargon, Sennacherib and the second Sardanapalus. Another was the 
second Tiglath-pileser, who is mentioned in the Bible. Distant expeditions were 
resumed and the arms of Assyria carried into new regions. Naval expeditions 
were undertaken in both the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. Cyprus was 
conquered and the Assyrian monarchs numbered Greeks among their subjects. 
Almost all the kings of this period came into contact with the Jews. But at last 
great hordes of Scythians invaded the Empire from the north and almost prostrated 
it. Before it could recover from this blow its old enemy, Media, fell upon it, and 
with the assistance of Babylon effected its downfall about 625 B. C. 

Media. 

Littie is known of the early history of Media. About the ninth century B. C. it 
was attacked by the Assyrians, and in the time of Sargon, about 710 B. C., it was 
partially conquered, and some of the Jews who had been taken captive by the 
Assyrians were settled in it. About 650 B. C. the Medes began to assume the 
aggressive against Assyria, and at the fall of Nineveh they shared with the Baby- 
lonians supreme power in the western Asia. The revolt of the Persians under Cyrus 
brought the Median Empire to an end in 558 B. C, but Media remained thereafter 
for many years the most important of the Persian provinces. 

Babylon. 

After the conquest of Babylonia by the Assyrians, about 1250 B. C, an As- 
syrian dynasty was established at Babylon and the country was long subject to the 
Kings of Nineveh. Later Babylonia was not only an independent kingdom, but was 
the head of a great empire. At the fall of Nineveh it seized upon a large share of 
the spoils of the Assyrian Empire, taking the Euphrates Valley, Syria, Phoenicia 
and Palestine. A brilliant period followed. Attacked by Egypt, the Babylonians 
not only repelled the aggressor, but actually invaded the Egyptian Empire and 
inflicted severe blows upon it. The Babylonian Empire flourished until the rise of 
Cyrus, the Persian. At that time its ruler, Belshazzar, was a weak and effeminate 
prince, who neglected properly to defend his capital. Cyrus gained an easy victory 
and Babylon became a province of the Persian Empire. 

Asia Minor. 

The most powerful state in Asia Minor in early times seems to have been 
Phrygia. Its people were brave but somewhat brutal. Its monarchs bore alter- 
nately the two names of Gordias and Midas. It was conquered and became a pro- 
vince of Lydia about 560 B. C. Cilicia was likewise the seat of a monarchy before 
the time of Cyrus, but became subject to Persia in the reign of Cambyses. Ulti- 
mately the most important of all the kingdoms of Asia Minor was Lydia. According 
to the accounts which Herodotus followed, a Lydian Kingdom existed from very 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 4^7 

ancient times. The last Lydian monarch, Croesus, was conquered by Cyrus 
B. C. 554- 

Phoenicia was one of the most important countries of the ancient world. In her 
the commercial spirit first showed itself as the dominant spirit of a nation. She was 
the carrier between the East and the West, in the ages before the first appearance 
of the Greeks as navigators. Her chief cities were Tyre, Sidon, Berytus, Byblus, 
Tripolis and Aradus. Of these Sidon was the most ancient, and prior to 1050 B. C. 
was the most flourishing of all. The precedency enjoyed by Sidon afterward 
devolved upon Tyre. The defeat of Sidon by the Philistines caused the transfer of 
power. About 743 B. C. the passive submission of Phoenicia to the Assyrian yoke 
beganto be exchanged for an impatience of it, and frequently efforts were made from 
this date until the fall of Nineveh to establish Phoenician independence. Nebu- 
chadnezzar added Phoenicia to Babylon and the country remained thus subjected 
until the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus. 

Syria* 

Until it was made a province of the Persian Empire, Syria was a mere cluster 
of semi-independent states. The chief of these was Damascus, the capital city of 
which was at least as old as the time of Abraham. This state was powerful enough 
to escape absorption into the Jewish Empire of Solomon, but finally fell before the 
attacks of Tiglath-pileser, about 732 B. C. 

The story of Palestine and its inhabitants, the Jews, need not be rehearsed in 
this place as it is fully given in the stories of the Bible. 

Egypt. 

One of the most ancient of all nations was Egypt — how old it is impossible to 
say. The early establishment of a monarchical government there is indicated in the 
Bible by the mention of a Pharaoh as contemporary with Abraham. The Egyptian 
priests themselves claimed for the monarchy in the time of Herodotus an age of more 
than 1 1,000 years. In early times Egypt was divided into a number of kingdoms each 
with its own separate dynasty, so that of the thirty dynasties recorded before the 
Macedonian conquest several were all the time ruling simultaneously. It was 
during the first six dynasties that the most noted pyramids were built, as 
tombs of the Kings. The fourth dynasty, which had its seat at Memphis, is 
especially known as the pyramid dynasty, and its date is variously set at from 2440 
to 3209 B. C. 

About 2080 B. C, or a little later, a powerful enemy entered Egypt from the 
northeast and subdued the greater part of the Empire. These were the so-called 
Shepherd Kings, wanderers from Syria or Arabia, who destroyed most of the 
Egyptian cities and nearly exterminated the male population, making slaves of the 
women and children. Native Egyptian dynasties continued, however, to hold their 
own in the far south. The city of Thebes accordingly rose at this time to pre- 
eminence, and after many years headed a movement for the expulsion of the 



468 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Shepherd Kings. This was accomplished about 1525 B. C. Thebes then, became 
the capital of all Egypt and the most flourishing period of Egyptian history followed. 
The great temple palaces of Thebes were built, and the obelisks were erected. 
Ethiopia, Arabia and Syria were invaded, the Euphrates was crossed, and a portion 
of Mesopotamia was added to the Egyptian Empire. 

Thothmes III was one of the greatest rulers of this dynasty. He was the 
invader of Mesopotamia and he built the great temples at Karnak, Thebes, Memphis 
and elsewhere. Thothmes IV was another great sovereign who led many military 
expeditions and constructed the famous Sphinx. Amunoph III also deserves notice 
as a military conqueror and the maker of the great statue of Memnon. 

Under the nineteenth dynasty Egypt reached the height of her power and 
glory. Under the twentieth she rapidly sank, and after 1100 B. C. played a com- 
paratively small part in the history of the world. After that date Egypt was 
conquered successively by the Ethiopians and the Assyrians. 

Carthage. 

The foundation of Carthage was probably about 850 B. C. It was a colony of 
Tyre, founded because of political differences in the mother country. It rapidly 
rose to commercial and military importance and extended its influence over Western 
Sicily, nearly all the other islands of the Western Mediterranean, and the northern 
coast of Africa. Toward the middle of the sixth century B. C. jealousies and con- 
flicts arose between Carthage and Greece, and then to strengthen herself against the 
rising power of Greece, Carthage made an alliance with Rome, the latter being 
then under the Tarquins. The extent of Carthaginian commerce was enormous. 
It reached northward to England, eastward to Phoenicia, westward to the Canary 
Islands, and southward almost to the Soudan. 

Persia. 

The Persians appeared to have formed a part of the great host which migrated 
westward from Bokhara in very early times. About a century before Cyrus the 
Persian monarchy was established by a chieftain named Achamenes, who founded 
an important dynasty. Until the time of Cyrus, however, the Persian Kings were 
in some measure subject to the Medians. Cyrus himself lived at first as a sort of 
hostage at the Median Court, and could not leave it without permission. But at 
length, seeing the weak character of the King of Media and the decay of the military 
spirit among the Medes he determined to revolt and make Persia an independent 
power. Finding this easily accomplished he went further and subdued the Medes, 
and made Persia the head of a new empire. 

His successor was Cambyses, a warlike prince who greatly extended his realm. 
He conquered Egypt, and marched against Carthage, but was overwhelmed by sand- 
storms in the desert and driven back. A similar disaster in the Nubian Desert 
checked his march against Ethiopia. Then a revolt arose against him in Persia and 
he committed suicide. After a revolutionary interregnum of a few months, Darius 




w 
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Pi! 

H 
O 

< 
u 

o 
P4 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 47 1 

came to the Persian throne. He was the greatest of all the Persian Monarchs. He 
greatly extended the empire, and consolidated and strengthened it by a reformed 
system of government. He carried his power as far as Northwestern India and into 
Southern Russia. 

War with Greece. 

His ambitious schemes were checked by a revolt of his Greek subjects in Asia 
Minor. Two states of European Greece, Athens and Eretria, joined the rebels. 
After a hard struggle Darius conquered the insurrection in his own realm, and then 
set out to punish Athens. His first expedition was unfortunate. The fleet was 
shattered by a storm off Mount Athos and his land army was crippled by a night 
attack. A second expedition was defeated by the Greek General Miltiades, at 
Marathon. The third would have been led by Darius himself had not his death 
prevented. He left his Empire and the legacy of revenge to his son Xerxes. 

The latter promptly proceeded with preparations for the invasion of Greece. 
An army of a million men was collected, and an enormous fleet. The advance 
through Thessaly was unresisted. But 400 ships were lost in a storm off Cape 
Sepias, and Leonidas, King of Sparta, with only three hundred men, held the entire 
army at bay for a time at the narrow pass of Thermopylae. At last through 
treachery the pass was carried and all the Spartans slain. Then came another 
disaster with the loss of 200 ships off the coast of Eubcea. The army continued to 
advance, however, and captured and destroyed Athens. Then the Greek com- 
mander, Themistocles, brought about the naval battle of Salamis, in which the 
remainder of the Persian fleet was destroyed. Xerxes returned home in despair, 
leaving his army behind him. The next year it was utterly routed in the battle of 
Platea, on September 25, 479 B. C., and the Persians never again attempted to 
invade European Greece. But the Greeks took the aggressive against Persia, drove 
them from the sea, and wrested from them many islands and colonies on the Asiatic 
coast. 

The Fall of Persia. 

After the death of Xerxes, the power of Persia began to decline. Weak kings 
occupied the throne and revolutions were frequent. In the reign of Artaxerxes II, 
about 400 B. C., a formidable revolt was headed by the king's younger brother, 
Cyrus, who engaged the assistance of 10,000 Greek mercenaries and invaded the 
Empire. Cyrus was killed and his army defeated in the battle of Cunaxa. The 
10,000 Greeks under Xenophon then made a masterly retreat and reached home in 
safety. Their observation of the military weakness of Persia increased the feeling 
of Greek superiority and opened the way for a Greek conquest of Asia. 

About seventy years later, in 336-330 B. C, Darius III occupied the Persian 
throne. He was an amiable but weak prince, and was unable to cope with the 
Greek, or Macedonian, invasion which then took place. Alexander the Great 
defeated the Persian army at the Granicus, then at Issus, and finally at Arbela, on 
October 1, 331 B. C. In the last named battle Darius was utterly routed and the 
Persian Empire came to an end. 



472 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Early Greece. 

The Greeks of historical times had no traditions of a migration from Asia. They 
held that their ancestors had always occupied their country. The original Greek 
tribes seemed to have been only two, the Dorians and the Achaeans. In early 
times the latter were the more powerful, but at last the Dorians became dominant 
and were the true founders of historic Greece. The first Greek state that rose to 
importance was Argos, which for several centuries was the leading power. Next, 
about 743 B. C., arose Sparta, ruled conjointly by two kings under the code of laws 
prepared by Lycurgus. This was a rude, aggressive and warlike state, which 
fought with its neighbors and soon became master of all Southern Greece. 

The traditional history of Athens begins with a dynasty of kings. Heroic 
monarchs are said to have governed the country from long before the Trojan War 
down to 1050 B. C. Then an aristocracy arose and Athens was ruled by magi- 
strates called Archons, chosen for life, down to 752 B. C.; then to 684 B. C., by 
Archons chosen for ten years each ; then for a short time by an oligarchy of nine 
Archons. Next arose a demand for a written code of laws, which was answered by 
Draco, 624 B. C., with a code of almost inconceivable severity and despotism. 
Agitation continued and in 594 B. C. Solon framed the first constitution of Athens. 
The dictatorship of Pisistratus followed, and then under the new constitution of 
Clisthenes, a republic was established. This gave a great impetus to the spirit of 
patriotism, and Athens soon rose to a commanding place in Greece, conquering 
even the Spartans. 

The other Greek states were generally inferior, in military and political im- 
portance, to Sparta and Athens, and were allied with one or the other of the latter. 
Greek colonies were planted on nearly all the coasts of the Mediterranean and at 
some points far inland. 

The Age of Pericles. 

After the Persian War Athens was the leading state of Greece and its capital 
city the most splendid city in the world. Among its leading men were Pericles, 
Cimon, Aristides, Themistocles and others. The Parthenon and other famous 
buildings were constructed, and there was collected in Athens a galaxy of intel- 
lectual and artistic lights scarcely paralleled in the history of the world. 

Then came on the desperate struggle with Sparta known as the Peloponnesian 
War. This lasted from 431 to 404 B. C., and extended over nearly the whole 
Grecian world. It ended in the downfall of Athens, which was due largely to the 
treachery of Alcibiades. He was a brilliant but dissolute Athenian General who, in 
the furtherance of a selfish ambition, went over to the Spartans and brought about 
the overwhelming defeat of the Athenians at Syracuse in Sicily. From this blow 
Athens never recovered. 

The Fall of Greece. 

The triumph of Sparta was the ruin of Greece. War after war followed 
between the various states, all steadily weakening the whole Hellenic race. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 473 

Thebes rose in determined resistance to Spartan tyranny. Under the leadership of 
Epaminondas she crushed the Spartans in the great battle of Leuctra, 371 B. C, 
and the power of Sparta was broken forever. Sparta actually sought an alliance 
with Athens against Thebes, and rallied several other states to the same side. 
They succeeded at last in causing the decline of Thebes, but not in building up an- 
other strong state or league of states. At last Thebes, driven to despair by her 
enemies, called in Philip of Macedonia to help her. He readily responded, entered 
Greece, and soon achieved the conquest of practically all the states, in spite of the 
heroic and eloquent efforts of the great orator, Demosthenes, to rouse the Athenians 
against him. That was the end of Greece. Thereafter the various states were 
mere provinces of the Macedonian Empire, and on the assassination of Philip his 
son, Alexander, became the unchallenged lord of the whole Greek world. 

Alexander the Great. 

Having made himself master of the Greek states, and of Egypt, Alexander 
invaded Asia, crossing the Hellespont in 334 B. C. with 35,000 men. After 
conquering Persia, as already told, he marched as far as India. Following the 
course of the Indus in ships built for the purpose, while his army marched along the 
banks, he conquered the valley as he descended, and, having reached the ocean, 
proceeded with the bulk of his troops westward through Beloochistan into Persia. 
Meanwhile his admiral, Nearchus, sailed from the Indus to the Euphrates. 

It was the intention of Alexander, after taking the measures which he thought 
advisable for the consolidation of his empire, and the improvement of his intended 
capital, Babylon, to attempt the conquest of the peninsula of Arabia. But these 
plans were brought to an end by the sudden death of their projector at Babylon, in 
the thirteenth year of his reign and the thirty-third of his age, June, B. C. 323. 

End of the Macedonian Empire. 

After the death of Alexander, the Macedonian empire was divided into four 
distinct kingdoms, viz., Egypt, under Ptolemy ; Macedonia, including Greece, under 
Cassander ; Thrace, under Lysimachus, and Syria, under Seleucus. Thrace soon 
became subject to Syria, and not long after, Macedonia was annexed to the Roman 
empire. 

Syria, for a period of 247 years, was governed by twenty-three kings, the 
successors of Seleucus, who were called the Seleucidas. It was then conquered by 
Pompey, and united with the Roman empire. Egypt under a race of kings called 
Ptolemy, lasted 293 years, and was then added by Octavius (afterwards called 
Augustus) to the Roman empire. Thus the whole Macedonian empire finally 
became subject to Rome. 

After the fall of the Macedonian empire the other Grecian states made several 
attempts to recover their liberty and independence ; the last of which was made by 
a confederacy called the Achaean League. But the Roman empire, which had 
become the most powerful in the world, soon extended its mighty arm over the 



474 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

divided states, and reduced the whole of Greece to a Roman province under the 
name of Achaia. 

Origin of Rome. 

Rome is said to have been founded by a colony of Trojans, under yEneas, after 
the fall of Troy. But the Roman people, in the earliest historic times, evidently 
belonged to the aboriginal race of Italy, the Latins. Procas, King of Alba, left two 
sons, Numitor and Amulius. The latter seized the throne, and murdered Numitor's 
son and made his daughter become a vestal virgin. But that daughter, Sylvia, was 
loved by Mars, the god of war, and by him became the mother of twin sons, Romu- 
lus and Remus. Then Amulius had her and the twins thrown into the River Tiber. 
She was drowned, but the twins were succored and nursed by a she-wolf. When 
they grew to manhood they killed Amulius and put Numitor on the Alban throne. 
Then, with his permission, they set out to build a city of their own. They had a 
quarrel over it, and Remus was killed, so Romulus became the founder of the city 
and gave it his own name, Rome. 

But he and his comrades were without wives ; and the neighboring tribes 
scornfully declined intermarriages. Romulus then proclaimed a great festival ; and 
the neighboring people, especially the Latins and Sabines, came in numbers, with 
their wives and daughters, to witness the ceremonies ; but while they were intent 
on the spectacle, the Roman youths rushed in, and forcibly bore off the maidens, to 
become wives of the captors. War followed, and the forces of three Latin cities 
were successively defeated. At last the Sabine king brought a powerful army 
against Rome, which Romulus was unable to resist in the open field, and he there- 
fore retreated to the city, while he fortified and garrisoned the Capitoline hill, over 
against the Palatine on the north, intrusting the command of it to one of his most 
faithful officers. But Tarpeia, the daughter of the commander, dazzled by the 
golden bracelets of the Sabines, agreed to open a gate of the fortress to the enemy 
on condition that they should give her what they bore on their left arms — meaning 
their golden ornaments. Accordingly the gate was opened, but the traitress expiated 
her crimes by her death ; for the Sabines overwhelmed her with their shields as they 
entered, these also being carried on their left arms. Soon after peace was made, 
and the Romans and Sabines became one nation. 

The Kings. 

After the death of Romulus, the country was ruled by a succession of kings, to 
wit.: Numa Pompilius, Tullus Hostilius, Ancus Martius, Tarquin the Elder, Servius 
Tullius, and Tarquin the Proud. The son of the latter, Sextus, brought about the 
fall of the dynasty by shamefully violating the person of Lucretia, wife of Colla- 
tinus, his cousin. She killed herself in her despair, and a popular revolt, headed by 
Lucius Junius Brutus, expelled the Tarquins and decreed the perpetual abolition of 
the kingship. Several attempts were made by the Tarquins, aided by neighboring 
tribes, to regain the throne. Once they nearly succeeded, but Horatius Codes and 
two companions defended the sole entrance to the city, over a bridge of the Tiber, 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 475 

against an army of 80,000 men, until the bridge was torn down behind them. His 
two comrades retreated just before the bridge fell, but Horatius remained until it 
had fallen, and then swam back to the city. 

The Republic. 

Rome was now governed by a Senate and two Consuls, though in times of great 
need the supreme authority was given to a single Dictator. Frequent conflicts 
arose between the two classes into which Romulus had divided the people, the Pat- 
ricians, or aristocrats, and Plebeians, or common people. After a time the office of 
Tribune was created, to guard the interests of the Plebeians. 

The office of Decemvirs was established in Rome, under the Consuls, to prepare 
a body of written laws, and to put them into execution for one year. They were ten 
in number, and each one in turn was invested with absolute power for a day. During 
the time for which they were appointed, all other magistrates were suspended. 
For three years the Decemvirs, or "Wicked Ten," were tyrants over Rome. 
Then one of them, Appius Claudius, fell in love with Virginia, daughter of Virginius, 
a veteran soldier ; but finding her betrothed to another, he procured a base depend- 
ant to claim her as his slave. Virginia was brought before the tribunal of Appius 
himself, who, by an iniquitous decision, ordered her to be surrendered to the claimant. 
It was then that the distracted father, having no other means of preserving his 
daughter's honor, stabbed her to the heart in the presence of the court and the as- 
sembled people. A general indignation against the Decemvirs spread through the 
city ; the army took part with the people ; the power of the Decemvirs was over- 
thrown ; and the ancient forms of government were restored. 

Coriolanus and Cincinnatus. 

During this time occurred wars with the Volscians and /Equians. In these 
Caius Marcius, a Roman nobleman, acquired the surname of Coriolanus from his 
bravery at the capture of the Volscian town of Corioli, and that Lucius Quinctius, 
called Cincinnatus, acquired great distinction by his conduct of the war against the 
TEquians. Coriolanus afterwards aroused the wrath of the Plebeians, who had him 
exiled. He fled to Corioli, led the Volscians against Rome, and would have captured 
it had not his wife and mother begged him to spare it. But for sparing it he was 
murdered at Corioli. 

In the ^Equian war the Senate and people chose Cincinnatus Dictator, and 

sending in haste to inform him of his election, the deputies found him at work in his 

field, dressed in the habit of a Roman farmer. He soon raised an army, surrounded 

the enemy, and took their whole force prisoners, and at the end of sixteen days, 

having accomplished the deliverance of his country, resigned his power, and returned 

to private life. 

The Gauls. 

The existence of Rome was next threatened by the Gauls, who, under Brennus, 

took all the city save the Palatine Hill. They tried to take it, too, by climbing up 

the rocks in the night, but the cackling of the sacred geese in the temple of Juno 



47^ HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

awoke Marcus Manlius, who hurled the foremost Gaul headlong down the precipice, 
and prevented the ascent of those who were mounting after him. At length famine 
began to be felt in the garrison. But the host of the besiegers was gradually melt- 
ing away by sickness and want, and Brennus agreed, for a thousand pounds of gold, 
to quit Rome and its territory. According to the old Roman legend, Camillus en- 
tered the city with an army while the gold was being weighed, and rudely accosting 
Brennus, and saying, "It is the custom of us Romans to ransom our country, not 
with gold, but with iron, " ordered the gold to be carried back to the temple, where- 
upon a battle ensued and the Gauls were driven from the city. 

A war with Tarentum, in Southern Italy, followed, in which the Tarentines 
were aided by Pyrrhus, King of Ephirus. The Romans were successful, and were 
thus encouraged later to invade Epirus and conquer all Greece. 

War with Carthage* 

The first war with Carthage occurred in 263 B. C. A Carthaginian fleet of 
sixty ships ravaged the coast of Italy; and the Romans saw the necessity of being 
able to meet the enemy on their own element. Unacquainted with the building of 
large ships, they must have been obliged to renounce their design had not a Car- 
thaginian ship of war been thrown upon the Italian coast by a storm. From the 
model thus furnished a hundred and thirty ships were built within sixty days after 
the trees had been felled, and the Romans soon mastered their foes on sea as well as 
on land. 

In the next war the Carthaginians were led by Hannibal, one of the greatest of 
generals. He marched though Spain and France, crossed the Alps, invaded Italy, 
and laid siege to Rome itself. But after a desperate campaign he was driven off. 
Then the Roman commander Scipio invaded Africa, and Hannibal had to return to 
the defence of Carthage. The Romans were successful in this war, and Hannibal 
went into exile, and there died. 

The third Carthaginian war ended in 146 B. C, in the total destruction of 
Carthage. 

Domestic Troubles. 

Now arose fresh troubles at Rome. The feuds of Patricians and Plebeians were 
renewed. Tiberius Gracchus and his brothers, grandsons of Scipio, became cham- 
pions of the people and effected great reforms, but were presently murdered by the 
Patricians. An aristocratic despotism was established, and the way opened for the 
downfall of the Republic itself. A war with Jugurtha, King of Numidia, followed, 
in which the Romans under the Consul Marius were successful. Marius also de- 
feated the Germans, who attacked Rome in great force. Then SyJa, a colleague 
of Marius, went to Asia to conquer Pontus and other lands. 

After that, a contest arose between Marius and Sylla for supreme power in 
Rome. First Marius declared himself Consul, and had the friends of Sylla massacred. 
But sixteen days later Marius died. Then Sylla returned, massacred the partisans 
of Marius, and made himself master of Rome. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 477 

The next great leader was Pompey, who conquered the Kingdom of the Seleu- 
cidae in Asia, and captured Jerusalem. His rival, Crassus, meanwhile crushed the 
insurrection of slaves and gladiators, led by the famous Spartacus. 

Catiline, a dissolute nobleman, organized a deadly conspiracy at Rome, but was 
exposed and baffled by the great orator, Cicero, and finally fell in battle. 

The Triumvirs. 

Then Pompey and Crassus became friends, and formed with Julius Caesar a 
triumvirate, ruling the whole Roman world. In a few years Caesar conquered all of 
Gaul, part of England, and some of Germany. Crassus invaded Parthia, and was 
killed, leaving Caesar and Pompey to divide the world between them. Then Caesar 
and Pompey fell out, and went to war with each other. Pompey was defeated in 
the great battle of Pharsalia, and was soon after murdered. 

Caesar was now supreme. After putting Cleopatra in her brother's place on 
the Egyptian throne, he marched against the King of Pontus, and overthrew him so 
quickly that he reported to the senate, " Veni, Vidi, Vici," ("I came, I saw, 1 
conquered"). On his return to Rome he reformed the calendar, made many useful 
changes in the laws, and was created Dictator for ten years. He had vast projects 
for the improvement of the empire in view, when a conspiracy was formed against 
him, led by Brutus and Cassius. They charged him with aspiring to be king, and 
assassinated him in the senate chamber, March 15, B. C. 44. 

The Empire. 

At the death of Julius Caesar, a second triumvirate was formed by Mark 
Antony, Lepidus, and Octavius. But Brutus and Cassius, who were anxious to 
restore the former government of Rome, and re-establish its republican character, 
raised a large army against the triumvirs. The efforts of the conspirators were 
unsuccessful, and Brutus and Cassius were defeated at the memorable battle of 
Philippe. The triumvirs, however, did not long live in harmony. Lepidus was 
deposed and banished, and the contest between Anthony and Octavius was finally 
terminated at the memorable battle of Actium, in which Octavius was completely 
successful, and became sole master of the Roman empire. Thus finally terminated 
the Commonwealth, or republican form of government of Rome, and it was never 
again restored. 

Octavius soon proclaimed himself Emperor, under the name of Augustus Caesar. 
His empire extended from the Rhine and the Danube on the north, to the Euphrates 
on the east; and from the Atlantic Ocean on the west, to the desert of Arabia and 
Africa on the south. Literature and the arts flourished wonderfully during his reign. 
For a time Rome was at peace with all nations, and in that year of universal peace, 
Jesus Christ was born at Bethlehem, in Judea, a province of the Roman Empire. 



CHAPTER II. 



FROM ROME TO AMERICA. 
THE EMPIRE AT ITS ZENITH — CONSTANTINE — GOTHS AND VANDALS- 

The Saracens — Charlemagne — the Rise of England — the 
norman conquest— the crusades— france and england 
—The Wars of the Roses— The Moguls— Germany- 
Spain AND PORTUGAL — VARIOUS STATES — THE 
AGE OF DISCOVERY— DISCOVERY OF AMERICA. 



©I 



ULIUS Caesar, of whom we have already spoken, is commonly reckoned 
the first Emperor of Rome. Octavius, or Augustus Caesar, was there- 
fore the second. He was succeeded by Tiberius, in whose reign the 
crucifixion of Jesus Christ occurred. After Tiberius came nine other Emper- 
ors, all like himself of savage and profligate character, with the exceptions of 
Vespasian and Titus, who were men of fine natures. The others were Caligula, 
Claudius, Nero, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Domitian all abandoned wretches. 
During the reign of Vespasian the city of Jerusalem was taken and destroyed and 
the Jews scattered abroad throughout the world. In the reign of Titus occurred the 
eruption of Vesuvius which destroyed the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Under 
Claudius the British Isles were added to the empire. Nero had the city of Rome 
burned and charged the crime against the Christians, whom he then persecuted 
with unrivalled savagery. Among his victims was St. Paul. 

The Empire at its Zenith. 

The succeeding Emperors varied in character. Trajan, under whom the empire 
reached its greatest extent, Hadrian, A. Severus, and the Antonines were all worthy 
princes, who are to be held in lasting honor. The rest were either weak or dissolute, 
or both. Commodus was one of the worst, but the palm for utter vileness must be 
given to Heliogabalus. Diocletian was an able ruler, but after reigring for more 
than twenty years he voluntarily retired to private life — the first sovereign who 
ever thus resigned his power. 

Constantine. 

The first Christian emperor was Constantine, who is said to have been con- 
verted by a miracle, much as was St. Paul. He found himself unpopular at Rome, 
and so changed the seat of government to Byzantium, which he renamed Constan- 
tinople. That city afterward became the capital of the Eastern Empire, while 
Rome was the capital of the Western. 

478 



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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 481 

After Constantine had publicly embraced Christianity, the Emperor Julian 
renounced it, and restored the old Roman worship for a time. The last emperor 
who ruled over the entire empire was Theodosius. Before he died he divided it and 
gave the eastern half to his son Arcadius, and the western half to his son Honorius. 

Goths and Vandals. 

The Western Empire was soon invaded by the Goths under their king, Alaric ; 
then by the Huns under Attila ; and by the Vandals, under Genseric. It was much 
ravaged and despoiled, and finally abolished altogether by Odoacer, king of the 
Heruli, who deposed the last Roman Emperor, Romulus Augustus, and proclaimed 
himself King of Italy. Thus ended, in the year 476, the Roman Empire, which in 
one form or another, had lasted about 1,200 years. 

The Eastern Empire lasted a thousand years longer, and then was overthrown 
by the Ottoman Turks, and Constantinople was made the capital of the Turkish 
Empire. 

After the fall of Rome there came upon Europe what are known in history as the 
Dark Ages. The masses of the people were sunk in ignorance. The Feudal 
System of government prevailed in all its tyranny, and finally the principles of 
chivalry began to prevail and to usher in a better age. 

The Saracens* 

A new power arose to commanding ranks. This was the Saracen Empire, 
which had its origin in the Arabian Peninsula, the only country of the world which 
has never suffered conquest. The founder of the empire was Mohammed, a camel- 
driver. He professed to have received a revelation from Heaven and to be a prophet 
of God. At first he was treated with contempt, but at last gained a host of followers 
and founded one of the greatest empires in history. Arabia, Syria, Persia, Egypt, 
and indeed all of northern Africa and western Asia fell under his sway. Later the 
Eastern Roman Empire, Spain, Hungary, and much of Austria were seized, and 
all Europe was threatened. 

Soon after the death of Mohammed a great division occurred in the empire on 
religious lines, and in the thirteenth century the empire was shattered by the 
Moguls, but out of its ruins three great monarchies were formed, which still exist. 

Charlemagne* 

Next a new empire was formed in Western Europe by various tribes known as 
Franks, or Freemen. They were chiefly centered in Gaul, which then became 
known as France. The greatest Frankish emperor was Charlemagne, who was 
crowned at Rome in the year 800. His rule extended over France, Germany, the 
Netherlands, Switzerland, and most of Spain and Italy. An inestimable service 
was rendered to the Christian world by the Franks under the grandfather of Charle- 
magne, Charles Martel, in the decisive defeat of the Saracens, who were then 
trying to overrun and subdue all Europe. Charles Martel gave them a repulse from 
which they never recovered and drove them out of France. 



4«2 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

The new western empire fell to pieces after the death of Charlemagne, and 
became divided into several states, of which France and Germany were the chief. 

At this time Denmark, Sweden aed Norway began to rise to importance. The 
Slavs pushed their way into Europe, and Italy fell to the rank of a mere province of 
the rising German Empire. 

The Rise of England. 

England, under the name of Britain, first appeared in history about fifty years 
before the Christian Era, when Julius Caesar, after conquering Gaul, attempted to 
subdue it. In the reign of Claudius, A. D. 41, the Romans made it a Roman pro- 
vince, and held it for about five hundred years thereafter. When the Roman Em- 
pire declined, the Saxons invaded, conquered and colonized the island, and divided 
it into seven kingdoms, known as the Saxon Heptarchy. This state of affairs lasted 
for about two hundred years. Then, in 828, all the kingdoms were united into one 
under Egbert, who thus became the first King of England. 

The greatest of the early kings of England was Alfred, who reigned in the latter 
part of the ninth century. He was the first great English law-giver ; he divided 
England into counties, introduced the art of building with brick and stone, translated 
many foreign books into Saxon, began ship-building, introduced trial by jury, es- 
tablished schools, and founded the University of Oxford. 

The Norman Conquest. 

The last of the Saxon kings of England was Harold, whose right to the throne 
was disputed by William, Duke of Normandy. Harold was overthrown and killed 
at the battle of Hastings in 1066, and the Norman Conquest of England was then 
effected. A series of Norman kings followed, and the crown then went to the 
Plantagenets under Henry II., who was sovereign not only of England but of the 
western part of France as well. After him came Richard the Lion-hearted, who 
was a great leader of the Crusades. Under his brother, John, the English crown 
lost much of its French realm, and Magna Charta was granted to the nobles of 
England, the latter being the foundation of constitutional government in that country. 

The Crusades. 

The Crusades were military expeditions, in which the Christian nations of 
Europe were engaged for the purpose of recovering Palestine from the dominion of 
the Turks. The Turks were of the Mohammedan religion, and cruelly treated the 
Christian pilgrims who resorted from pious motives to the city of Jerusalem. The 
Crusaders obtained possesion of Jerusalem for a short time, but it was soon retaken 
by the Mohammedans, who still retain possession of it. 

The crusading spirit lasted from the eleventh to the thirteenth century, and 
during this period of about 200 years, in which ten different expeditions were under- 
taken, it is computed that more than two million of Europeans found their graves in 
the East. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 4*3 

France and England. 

King John of England was succeeded by his son Henry, and after him came 
the three Edwards. Edward I. conquered Wales. Edward II. tried to conquer 
Scotland. He invaded that country with an army of a hundred thousand men ; 
which immense force was met at Bannockburn by the Scots, under their king, 
Robert Bruce, with an army of only thirty thousand, and entirely defeated. This 
victory secured the independence of Scotland. 

Edward III. being the son of a French princess, claimed the crown of France 
and went to war with Philip of Valois who held it. His son, the Black Prince, was 
the foremost leader of his army. In the battles of Crecy and Poictiers the French 
vastly outnumbered the English but were utterly routed. In this war Edward III. 
adopted the motto still borne by the sovereigns of England " Dieu et Mon Droit," or 
"God and my right," and the Black Prince adopted as the crest the three plumes 
and the motto "Ich Dien " or " I serve," still borne by the Prince of Wales. 

Under Henry V. and VI. the war with France was resumed and was continued 
in all for a hundred years. The French were routed at Agincourt, and Orleans 
was besieged. Charles, king of France, was not yet crowned. At this juncture 
appeared Joan of Arc, a beautiful maiden of eighteen years of age, and of obscure 
parentage, commanded, as she asserted, by a vision, to raise the siege of Orleans, 
and to conduct Charles to Rheims to be crowned. After some neglect, her services 
were accepted : she was mounted on horseback in male attire, and at the head of 
the French troops compelled the English to retire from Orleans. She then conducted 
Charles to Rheims; and, after seeing him crowned, declared that her mission was 
accomplished, and wished again to retire to private life. But her countrymen, 
finding her presence so animating to the troops, detained her still in arms. She 
afterwards fell into the hands of the English, and, at the instigation of her own un- 
grateful countrymen, was condemned by the church as a sorceress and a heretic, 
and was finally burned at the stake. 

The Wars of the Roses. 

The "Wars of the Roses " in England were contests between the houses of 
York and Lancaster for the crown. A white and a red rose were adopted as a 
badge, respectively, by the houses of York and Lancaster ; that of York being 
known by the white rose, that of Lancaster by the red. These contests involved 
the kingdom in civil wars and commotions, for many years, from the reign of Henry 
IV. to that of Henry VII., the second branch of the house of Lancaster ; who, at 
the battle of Bosworth, overthrew Richard III., the last sovereign of the house of 
Yo r k ; and marrying Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward IV., of the same house, 
united the houses of York and Lancaster. As Elizabeth was the rightful heir of the 
throne, Henry VII. thus united all the claims, and terminated "the wars of the roses." 

Richard III. was a usurper, murderer, and tyrant. But in his short reign 
several important laws were enacted, and the laws of England were first written in 
English and published. 



a8 4 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

The Moguls. 

The Moguls, or Tartars, had their origin somewhere in north central Asia. In 
the thirteenth century they moved westward and southward under their famous 
leader Genghis Khan, and overran a large part of Asia and Europe. They 
established a strong dynasty in southeastern Russia, which greatly delayed the 
civilization of that country. In 1258 they captured Bagdad and shattered the 
Mohammedan empire. 

In the next century they were successfully opposed by the Ottoman Turks. 
Their last great leader was Tamerlane, and after his death, in 1405, their empire 
came to an end. Russia finally got rid of them in 1477, but did not until much later 
herself enter the community of European states. 

Germany. 

In the eleventh century the German Empire, which included Austria, Burgundy, 
Switzerland and Italy, was the leading power in Europe. In the twelfth century it 
began to decline and to be divided into independent states. The cities of northern 
Italy, such as Venice, Genoa and Florence, secured their independence and rose to 
great distinction. These cities in the fourteenth century began to fall under the 
power of tyrannical families, and to be combined into larger states. Florence under 
the Medici family reached in the fifteenth century the height of its splendor. In 
that century Germany lost Burgundy to France and became in other respects much 
weakened. 

Spain and Portugal. 

In the tenth century the southern two-thirds of the Spanish Peninsula belonged 
to the Saracens, whose civilization there was then at its height. The kingdoms of 
Leon, Castile, and Navarre were founded in the north in the tenth century and 
Aragon was added to their number in the eleventh. Portugal became a kingdom in 
the twelfth century, and then the five steadily pushed the Saracens southward 
until only the small kingdom of Granada remained to them. It fell in 1492. 
Portugal then occupied about its present territory, and practically all the rest of 
the peninsula belonged to Spain. 

Various States. 

Denmark, Norway, and Sweden reached the height of their power in the 
eleventh and twelfth centuries, and were united under one monarch in the 
fourteenth. 

Russia, Servia and Hungary became Christian powers in the eleventh century. 

Ireland was conquered by England in 1172. 

The Swiss Confederation was founded in 1308, and a century later became an 
important power. Poland also rose to importance in the fifteenth century. Mention 
must also be made of Rienzi, a Roman patriot of noble birth, who, in the fourteenth 
century, for a time re-established the Roman Republic in something of its ancient 
form. His success was, however, short-lived, and he fell a victim to his own 
ambition. 




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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 487 

The Age of Discovery. 

And now the time was ripe for the dawning of a new era. Gunpowder had 
been invented, and the art of printing. The properties of the magnetic needle had 
also been discovered, and this latter gave a great impetus to navigation of the sea. 
Under the patronage of Prince Henry of Portugal various expeditions were sent out, 
with noteworthy results. The first voyages were made down the west coast of 
Africa, in quest of a sea route to the East Indies. Thus the Cape of Good Hope 
was finally reached and rounded. These adventures moved Christopher Columbus, 
a Genoese navigator, to conceive the bold project of sailing westward from the 
European coast across the Atlantic Ocean. Thus he believed it would be possible 
to circumnavigate the globe and reach the East Indies from the other side. He met 
at first with little encouragement and many obstacles, but at last received some 
limited patronage from Isabella, Queen of Castile, and in 1492 set out with three 
small vessels upon his wondrous voyage. 

Discovery of America. 

To the importance of that voyage no words can do full justice. " The departure 
from Palos," said Everett, ''where, a few days before, he had begged a morsel of 
bread and a cup of water for his wayworn child, — his final farewell to the Old 
World at the Canaries, — his entrance upon the trade winds, which then, for the 
first time, filled a European sail, — the portentious variation of the needle, never 
before observed, — the fearful course westward and westward, day after day, and 
night after night, over the unknown sea, — the mutinous and ill-appeased crew : — at 
length, when hope had turned to despair in every heart but one, the tokens of land, 
— the cloud-banks on the western horizon, — the logs of driftwood, — the fresh shrub, 
floating with its leaves and berries, — the flocks of land birds, — the shoals of fish 
that inhabit shallow water, — the indescribable smell of the shore, — the mysterious 
presentiment that seems to go ever before a great event, — and finally, on that ever- 
memorable night of the 12th of October, 1492, the moving light seen by the 
sleepless eye of the great discoverer himself, from the deck of the Santa Maria, and 
in the morning the real, doubted land, swelling up from the bosom of the deep, with 
its plains, and hills, and forests, and rocks, and streams, and strange new races of 
men : — these are incidents in which the authentic history of the discovery of our 
continent excels the specious wonders of romance, as much as gold excels tinsel, or 
the sun in the heavens outshines the flickering taper." 



24 



CHAPTER III. 



DOWN TO MODERN TIMES. 

The wars of France— England's Growing power— Unhappy Italy— Some other 
States— the reformation— French disasters— Italy— The English Reforma- 
tion— SCANDINAVIA— SOLYMAN, THE MAGNIFICENT-THE NEW WORLD-RELIG- 
IOUS WARS IN FRANCE— THE FIRST BOURBON— ITALY AND THE TURKS— 

Spains' Cruelty and Woe — The Elizabethan age — The Stuarts 
—The Thirty Years' War— Richelieu— Italy and Spain— Eastern 
Nations— Troubles in France persecutions— Marlborough 
—Spain and Portugal— Charles XII. of Sweden-Peter 
the Great— The times of Cromwell— the restora- 
tion—preparing for Revolution— William of 
Orange— "Good Queen Anne"— India— The 
American Colonies — Plymouth Rock — 
Dates of Settlement— France Pre- 
paring for Revolution—" after 
us the deluge! ' — spain and 
Portugal — Frederick the 
Great— The Hanoverians. 



<fp 



HE close of the fifteenth century saw Spain rising to power as the foremost 
nation of Europe. The two kingdoms of Aragon and Castile were 
practically united under Ferdinand and Isabella. After the latter's death 
they were temporarily separated, but the astute Ferdinand soon reunited them, and 
then, by the seizure of Navarre in 15 12, made all Spain one kingdom. Naples and 
Sicily were also added to the Spanish domain. After a brief regency, Ferdinand 
was succeeded by his grandson, Charles I., best known as the Emperor Charles V., 
one of the most famous of European rulers. He was a descendant of Charles the 
Bold of France and Maximilan of Austria. He thus was at the same time King of 
Spain, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy and the Netherlands, King of the 
Two Sicilies, and Lord of the Spanish Settlements in America and Africa, which 
latter were of vast extent. A couple of years after his accession he was made 
Emperor of Germany, and thus became by far the greatest sovereign of his times. 

The Wars of France. 

The Hundred Years' War between France and England was ended, but the 
former nation enjoyed little peace. Under Charles VIII. and Louis XII., it was 
almost continually at war. In Italy it made great conquests, but had to surrender 
most of them to Spain. Then a quarrel with England arose, and Henry VIII. 
invaded France, and routed an army at the famous Battle of the Spurs, so called 

488 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 489 

because of the precipitate flight of the French. The most noted French warrior of 
these times was the Chevalier Bayard, who was said to be "without fear and 
without reproach." 

England's Growing: Power, 

England was also rapidly growing in power. Henry VII. was a wise and enter- 
prising king. Despite several rebellions at home, the most notable being that of 
Perkin Warbeck, who claimed the throne, as a son of Edward IV., the influence of 
England was steadily extended abroad. Much attention was paid to commerce and 
naval power, and under English commissions John Cabot and others made voyages 
of discovery and conquest. Cabot first discovered the North American continent 
and planted an English colony there. Henry VII. married his daughter to James IV. 
of Scotland, and thus prepared the way for the ultimate union of those countries. 
Under Henry VIII. the growth of England continued. At the battle of Flodden 
Field the Scotch army was almost annihilated, and the military power of that coun- 
try hopelessly broken, after which there was peace between England and Scot- 
land. 

Unhappy Italy. 

At this time the condition of Italy was most deplorable. Savonarola for a time 
effected great reforms at Florence, but was at last led to martyrdom by the very 
people he strove to benefit. The Papacy became corrupt. Caesar and Lucretia 
Borgia distinguished themselves by their crimes. The commercial supremacy of 
Venice and Genoa was destroyed by the Portuguese, who discovered the route to 
India around the Cape of Good Hope and built up an empire there. France and 
Spain invaded Italy and found it an easy prey. Nevertheless, the artistic genius of 
Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michael Angelo made this a time of Italian glory. 

Some Other States. 

Germany, meanwhile, was too much divided to figure largely in European affairs. 
The Turks, now established at Constantinople, added Syria and Egypt to their grow- 
ing empire. Poland was now an important kingdom, and Russia was becoming 
civilized, and getting into touch with the rest of Europe. Ivan III., who died in 
1505, was the first Russian ruler known as Czar. He freed the country from the 
Tartars and laid the foundation of Russian greatness. 

The Reformation. 

Now came one of the greatest movements in history, with its origin and centre 
in Germany. This was the Reformation led by Martin Luther. Papal corruption 
reached its climax in the sale of so-called Indulgences, giving their purchaser free- 
dom from the moral law. Against these Luther, then an Augustinian friar in Ger- 
many, publicly protested, in 15 17, and thus presently became known as a Protest- 
ant. At first he aimed at reform of the Roman church from within, but was soon 
driven out of that church altogether, and became the leader of a separate religious 



490 HISTORY OF THE WORLD* 

communion. He was excommunicated by the Pope, and in return himself de- 
nounced the Pope as Antichrist. Various German Princes became converted to the 
Protestant faith, and so the new movement took on a political as well as a religious 
aspect. All Europe was divided between the rival faiths, and an era of religious wars 
and persecutions began, marked with the utmost bitterness and cruelty on both sides. 
At last, in 1555 the Religious Peace of Augsburg was concluded, and the next year 
the great Emperor, Charles V., took the extraordinary step of resigning his crown 
and retiring to a monastery, where he spent the remainder of his life. 

French Disasters. 

Francis I. of France was the bitter foe of Charles V., and made war against 
him, but was disastrously beaten. Then he invaded Italy, only to be routed. At 
Pavia, Francis was taken prisoner by the Imperial troops, and sent word home to 
his mother, "All is lost, save honor." He was released, and resumed the war, and 
continued it until the end of his life, almost steadily losing and bringing his kingdom 
near to ruin. In his reign, however, the great religious reformer John Calvin arose 
and established Protestantism in France. He was persecuted by Francis and com- 
pelled to seek refuge in Switzerland, where most of his work was thereafter done. 
In this reign also the satirist Rabelais did his work. 

Francis's son and successor, Henry II., was not more fortunate. He took from 
the English their last remaining possession in France, but was elsewhere beaten by 
Spain. He married Catherine de Medici, and thus introduced her baleful influence 
into French politics. He began persecuting the Protestants and started an era of 
religious wars in France. In his time arose the Duke of Guise and Admiral Coligny, 
the leaders of the Catholic and Protestant parties respectively. 

Italy. 

The history of Italy at this time was a troubled one. The country was made a 

mere fighting ground for others. Spain finally won, and the enslavement of Italy 

was completed. The Medici family was at this time one of the most powerful in 

Italy. Doria, the great Genoese admiral, flourished. Ignatius Loyola founded the 

famous Order of Jesus, commonly known as Jesuits, and the Inquisition, founded in 

Spain, was introduced into Italy. Correggio and Titian enriched Italian art, and 

Ariosto in literature and Machiavelli in statecraft and philosophy added lustre to the 

Italian name. _ f *?«»<■» r 

The English Reformation. 

Henry VIII. of England was a proud and masterful prince, and was restless 
under the Papal authority to which his predecessors had submitted. Finally, 
disagreeing with the Roman church on the matter of divorcing his first wife, 
Katharine of Aragon, he renounced all allegiance to the Pope and espoused the cause 
of the Lutheran Reformation. The English church was declared independent of 
Rome, an English translation of the Bible was authorized for popular use, and an 
era of religious strife thus begun. During the short reign of his son and successor, 
Edward VI., the Reformation was continued, but under Queen Mary, a Catholic 




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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 493 

reaction set in, and Protestants were savagely persecuted. Mary married Philip of 
Spain, who aspired to unite the two kingdoms, but she died without issue and that 
plan came to naught. She was succeeded by her sister, Elizabeth, a Protestant, 
under whom the Reformation was fully restored. 

Scandinavia. 

At about this time the modern history of the Scandinavian kingdoms began. In 
the reign of the savage monster, Christian II., the union of the three was broken. 
Sweden revolted and made Gustavus Vasa its king. All three of the kingdoms 
accepted the Protestant faith. 

Meanwhile Ivan IV., the Terrible, greatly extended the Russian empire, making 
it reach from the Caspian to the Baltic, and gave it its first real code of laws and 
judicial system. 

Solyman the Magnificent* 

In this era flourished Solyman the Magnificent, the greatest of all Turkish 
rulers and one of the greatest of that time in all the world. He took the island of 
Rhodes after a memorable struggle ; captured Belgrade in 1521 ; and five years later 
invaded Hungary, won a great victory and killed the King of Hungary at Mohacz, 
and occupied Budapest. Next he laid siege to Vienna, but after losing 120,000 men 
was compelled to retire. He made conquests in other directions and was sought as 
an ally by Christian sovereigns. He was a great legislator, a fine poet, an eminent 
warrior, a patron of arts and letters, a great road-maker, and a builder of many 
splendid edifices. 

The first half of the sixteenth century the great Mogul Empire was founded in 
India by Baber, a descendant of Tamerlane. 

The New World. 

Meantime the development of the New World proceeded apace. Fernando 
Cortez, a Spanish adventurer conquered Cuba, and then, in 15 19 and 1520 
achieved the conquest of Mexico with almost unparalleled bloodthirstiness. In 1531 
Francisco Pizarro did the same in Peru. Others extended the work of conquest 
elsewhere, until practically the whole of Central and South America, and the 
southern part of North America, with inestimable riches in gold and silver, belonged 
to Spain. 

In the latter half of the sixteenth century interest was chiefly centered upon 
France and the Netherlands. Germany led a peaceful existence under the mild 
and tolerant Emperors Ferdinand and Maximilian. Rudolph II., who came next, 
was a bigoted Romanist who attempted to suppress Protestantism and started the 
Anti-Reformation, but no serious conflict arose in his reign. 

Religious Wars in France. 

In France civil war soon broke out between the Catholics and the Protestants, 
or Huguenots. The Duke of Guise was the leader of the former and the Prince of 
Conde and Admiral Coligny of the latter. After much open fighting the Duke of 



494 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Guise was murdered, and then a truce was concluded. But a second and then a 
third war followed, the Prince of Conde being slain in the latter. In the next peace 
the Huguenots were so favored at court that the Guises determined upon extreme 
measures against them. The weak minded King was prevailed upon by his mother, 
Catherine de Medici, to sign an order for the destruction of the Huguenots. The 
mob and soldiery of Paris then rose under the lead of the Guises and massacred 
them to the number of 20,000, Coligny among them. This occurred on St. 
Bartholomew's Day, August 24, 1572. Another war followed, in which the 
Huguenot city of Rochelle withstood a memorable siege. 

The wretched King, Charles IX., soon died, and was succeeded by his brother, 
Henry III. The Guises at once attempted to take Paris by force and depose the 
King, in order to establish a new dynasty and prevent the next heir, the Protestant 
Henry of Navarre, from succeeding the childless Henry III. Strong resistance was 
made by Henry of Navarre, but the Guises entered Paris and expelled the King, 
and Henry of Guise was proclaimed King in his stead. Henry III. fled to the camp 
of Henry of Navarre, but was murdered by a young monk, an emissary of the 
Guises. A few hours earlier his famous mother also died. 

The First Bourbon. 

Henry of Navarre then succeeded to the French throne as Henry IV., and 
founded the famous Bourbon dynasty. He had to fight for his throne, however, 
but was successful in so doing. He crushed the Catholic League in the famous 
Battle of Ivry, in 1590, and then, deeming it politic thus to please the majority of 
his subjects, became a Catholic. He was thereupon loyally accepted as King by all, 
and the religious wars came to an end. In the Edict of Nantes he decreed perfect 
civil equality between members of both faiths, and kept his word to both. 

Italy and the Turks. 

Italy at this time was in a bad way. The power of Venice was declining, and 
the Turks were seizing outlying possessions and threatening the conquest of the 
peninsula itself. The Turks would have succeeded had not a combined Italian and 
Austrian fleet, under Don John of Austria defeated them utterly in the great sea- 
fight of Lepanto, in 1 5 7 1 . This was truly one of the decisive battles of the world. 

In this period Sixtus V. was Pope, one of the greatest men that ever filled that 
exalted place. Another great Pope was Clement VIII. The printer Aldus at Venice, 
the poet Tasso, the painters Titian and Paul Veronese, and St. Charles Borromeo 
and St. Francis of Sales made this era in Italian history noteworthy. 

Spain's Cruelty and Woe. 

At this time Spain was under Philip II., a monster of cruelty. He at first set 
out to extirpate Protestantism. To that end he established the Inquisition in all its 
severity in Spain, Italy and the Netherlands. In the last named country he was 
stubbornly resisted by William of Orange, best known as William the Silent. 
I his great prince fought against overwhelming odds with valor that has seldom 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 40s 

been equalled in history. The cruelties of the Spaniards under the Duke of Alva 
were hideous beyond description. But in the end the Netherlanders won their 
independence and established a commonwealth of their own with the colossal genius 
of William the Silent at its head. William was afterward assassinated by a wretch 
hired by Philip of Spain, and was succeeded by his worthy son, Maurice. The 
Dutch were helped by the English in their heroic struggle, and it was in their battle 
of Zutphen, in 1586, that the famous Sir Philip Sidney fell. 

But Philip of Spain met with awful punishment for his cruelty. He was so 
enraged at England for helping the Dutch and for other reasons that he determined 
to attempt the conquest of that country. Accordingly he fitted out an enormous 
fleet, called the Invincible Armada, consisting of 130 ships with nearly 30,000 
soldiers and sailors. The much smaller but more active English fleet met it in the 
Channel and harassed it greatly, destroying many of its ships and throwing all 
into confusion. Violent storms completed the work, and only 35 of the Spanish 
ships and less than 10,000 men ever reached home again. This was a terrible blow 
to Spain, but it was not the only one. Francis Drake and other English captains 
preyed upon Spanish commerce at will, with most destructive results. Spanish 
ships were taken wholesale, with the vast treasures they were bringing from America. 
Spanish cities in the New World were sacked. And Drake even entered the chief 
port of Spain itself, Cadiz, and destroyed the Spanish warships as they lay at 
anchor. This he grimly called " singeing the King's beard." 

The Elizabethan Age* 

England under Queen Elizabeth was now making great progress in all respects. 
Religious strife was hushed. Industries, arts and letters prospered. Navigators 
explored the world and laid the foundations of a great colonial empire. Francis 
Drake sailed around the world — the first to do so with a single ship. Walter Ral- 
eigh planted a colony in Virginia, thus sowing the seed from which the United States 
has grown. In 1600 the charter of the East India Company was granted, and the 
first step taken toward conquering an empire there. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scot- 
land, by her vicious courses plunged her own land into anarchy, and was driven 
out of it for its good. She sought refuge in England, but soon began plotting for 
the murder of Elizabeth, whom she hoped to succeed. At last Elizabeth was com- 
pelled, by the demands of the people, to consent to Mary's execution. 

In this notable reign English literature was enriched with the works of Shakes- 
peare, Spenser, Sidney, Marlowe, and Richard Hooker. 

The Stuarts. 

Elizabeth was succeeded by her cousin, James VI. of Scotland, son of Mary 
Stuart. He became James I. of England, established the Stuart dynasty, and 
effected in his person the union of England and Scotland, being thus the first sov- 
ereign of the united kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. In his reign the great 
works of the Elizabethan age were continued. The colony of Jamestown was 



4Q5 history of the world. 

planted in Virginia, a revised version of the Bible was published, and Francis Bacon 
made his immortal contributions to literature and human learning. 

James had numerous disagreements with Parliament, and these were continued 
and intensified in the reign of his son, Charles I. That monarch tried to levy un- 
lawful taxes, to compel obnoxious changes in the form of public worship, and to do 
other things in opposition to the will of Parliament. Civil war soon broke out, the 
Parliamentary party being led by Oliver Cromwell, John Hampden and others. In 
the end the King was beaten. He was taken prisoner, tried for high treason, and 
put to death, on January 30, 1649. 

The Thirty Years' War. 

Meantime religious strife was renewed in Germany, in the form of the Thirty 
Years' War. Albert of Wallenstein was the chief Catholic leader in the field, 
and for a time he carried all before him. But his success and his ambition caused 
him to be regarded with jealousy by others of his own party. He was presently 
dismissed by the Emperor and succeeded by Count Tilly, an able but unscrupulous 
and savage soldier. 

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden now came to the help of the Protestants 
with an army of Swedes. Tilly captured Magdeburg in 1631, sacked it and butchered 
its inhabitants in the most inhuman fashion. Then Gustavus came up with him at 
Breitenfeld, or Leipsic, and in a tremendous battle routed him and showed him that 
his Swedes were the best fighters in Europe. 

This made the Protestant cause seem sure of success, and Gustavus at a single 
step placed himself at the head of military commanders of that age. He 
again met Tilly, killed him and routed his army. He then captured Munich, the 
Catholic capital, and occupied the Emperor's palace. The Emperor in desperation 
recalled Wallenstein, and that great soldier came back to command the Catholic 
forces. He and Gustavus met at Nuremburg and fought an indecisive battle. 
Again they met, on November 10, in the great battle of Lutzen. Here Wallen- 
stein was utterly routed and his chief lieutenant, Pappenheim, was killed. But 
Gustavus too was killed, and in his death 'the Protestants suffered an irreparable 
loss. Wallenstein organized another army and, freed from the one man able to 
cope with him, aimed at seizing the supreme power. His ambitious schemes were 
cut short by his death at the hands of assassins hired by the Emperor. Thus, in 
Gustavus and Wallenstein perished two of the greatest men of their time on the 
continent of Europe. The war then gradually waned, and peace was at last re- 
stored, with general religious toleration. 

Richelieu. 
The third great man was Cardinal Richelieu, Minister and real ruler of France. 
Henry IV. and his able Minister, the Duke of Sully, had given France much pros- 
perity. Henry was murdered in 1610, and Louis XIII. came to the throne. He was 
a mere boy, and the government was for years conducted by others in his name, 
with the result that the good and wise reign of Henry was followed by one of the 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 497 

worst on record. But at last Richelieu came to the fore, and gave France a worthy 
government. Catholic though he was, he supported the Protestants in Germany, 
and greatly assisted Gustavus. He reformed the whole French administration, 
founded the French Academy, and when he died France lost her ablest Minister and 
the world its greatest statesman of that age. He was succeeded by his friend and 
pupM, Cardinal Mazarin, who continued his policy, and raised the French army, 
under the Prince of Conde, to the foremost rank in Europe. 

Italy and Spain. 

In Italy, the Dukedom of Savoy now began to rise into prominence, but else- 
where little of interest occurred. In 1633, the astronomer Galileo was compelled to 
renounce his theory of the revolution of the earth around the sun ; but when he 
got out of hearing of the Inquisition again he persistently declared, "It does move !" 

Spain, under the narrow and cruel Philip III., was now hopelessly on the down 
grade. Through religious intolerance, the Moriscoes, or Spanish Moors, were 
expelled. They went away, half a million in number, taking with them five-sixths 
of the commercial wealth and enterprise of Spain. From that self-inflicted blow the 
kingdom never recovered. 

Nevertheless, this disastrous time was partially redeemed by the literary 
achievements of Cervantes, author of " Don Quixote," and of Lope de Vega, the 
great dramatist, who both flourished in the early part of the seventeenth century. 

Eastern Nations. 

The early part of the seventeenth century saw the Turkish Empire steadily 
declining, under a succession of weak or brutal Sultans. Poland was governed 
most unwisely, and began the quarrels with Russia, which in later times culminated 
in her ruin. Russia, on the other hand, was making steady progress. In 1598 the 
long dynasty, founded by Rurik, came to an end, after 700 years of rule. After some 
troubled years under elected or usurping Czars, the nobles chose Michael Romanoff 
to be hereditary Emperor, and thus established the present dynasty. 

The Mogul Empire in India suffered an irreparable loss in 1606 in the death of 
its Emperor Akbar, one of the most enlightened rulers of his time. His successors 
were unworthy princes, and the empire began to decline. The British, Dutch, and 
French all sought to make conquests there by peaceful means, but for a time the 
Dutch far outstripped the others. 

The Persian Empire, under the great Shah Abbas, was much enlarged and 
strengthened. Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Georgia were conquered and added to 
it ; Ispahan was made its capital, and the great pilgrimage to the holy city of Meshed 
was established as a rival to the Turkish pilgrimages to Mecca. 

In China this was a momentous era. In 1603 missionaries first preached Chris- 
tianity in that Empire. In 1627 an attack upon the throne — the latest of a long 
series — was made by the Tartars of Mantchooria, and was successful. The native 
Chinese dynasty was deposed, and the Tartar dynasty, which has ever since ruled 



498 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

the Empire, was established. The Chinese were thenceforth compelled to wear 
their hair in pig-tails as a mark of submission to their conquerors. 

In 1620 the Emperor of Japan sent a commission to Europe to study the Chris- 
tian religion, and report upon the desirability of introducing it into Japan. The 
report was not favorable, and the preaching of Christianity was forbidden. It is of 
interest to observe that from 1630 to 1647 the offices of Mikado and Tycoon were 
both held by women. 

Troubles in France. 

The latter half of this century was a troublous time for France. Cardinal 
Mazarin was the real head of the government, and he soon came into conflicts with 
the local Parliaments, that then existed, on subjects of taxation and others. 
The Prince of Conde placed himself at the head of the opposition party, and 
plunged the country into civil war. For a time the great Marshal Turenne was a 
partisan of Conde, but on the latter's attempt to overturn the dynasty Turenne 
arrayed himself against him. Conde then joined the Spanish in a war against 
France, but was completely beaten by Turenne, who had the assistance of England. 

On Mazarin's death, in 1661, the young King, Louis XIV., decided to govern 
France himself, without a Minister, saying, "The State ? I am the State!" An 
era of despotism followed, but marked with great splendor of arms and letters, 
entitling Louis to become known as " the Grand Monarch." Colbert, the financier, 
Vauban, the inventor of the modern methods of military fortification, Turenne, the 
commander, and Bossuet, Fenelon, Racine, Corneille, and Moliere were some of the 
great figures of this extraordinary reign. 

A bitter war with Holland broke out in 1672, in which the French, under 
Turenne, were generally victorious on land, and the Dutch, under Admiral De 
Ruyter, on the sea. Turenne was killed in the battle at Salsbach, in 1675, and 
was succeeded by Conde, who had returned to his allegiance to France. In 1678 
peace was concluded on terms of compromise. 

Persecutions. 

At the height of his power, Louis turned his attention to religious affairs. 
Under the influence of Madame de Maintenon, to whom he was privately married, 
he began a severe persecution of the Protestants of France. Protestant churches 
were everywhere shut up, and when the unhappy people ventured to resist they 
were hunted down and butchered by parties of dragoons, in what were known as the 
" dragonnades." But even these monstrous cruelties were not enough to satisfy 
the fanatical Maintenon. In 1685 the Edict of Nantes was revoked, and the last 
shelter of the Protestants was destroyed. The exercise of the Protestant religion 
was forbidden, Protestant churches were destroyed, all children of Protestants were 
to be taken from them and brought up as Catholics, and, in order that no one might 
escape the rigors of the decree, emigration from the country was forbidden. 
Nevertheless, some 50,000 families, including most of the industrial leaders of the 
country, made their escape to England and other countries, and in a few years 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 499 

France lost 100,000 of her best citizens and $300,000,000, and had her industries 
almost ruined, as the results of this barbarous policy. 

Louis next engaged in war with Germany, and ravaged the Palatinate in the 
most savage manner. England and Holland joined the league against him, and a 
bitter campaign ensued, in which Luxembourg and Catinat were the foremost 
French Generals, and Prince Eugene on the side of the allies. 

Marlborough. 

After much indecisive fighting, a truce was made at Ryswick in 1697. But 
within five years it was broken again, and a still greater war begun. It raged all 
through Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands. The French were led by Tallard, 
Vendome, and others. The allied powers had for their leaders Prince Eugene and 
the Duke of Marlborough. The latter, John Churchill, proved himself the greatest 
soldier of the age. He routed the French in the tremendous battles of Blenheim, 
in 1704; Ramillies, in 1706; Oudenarde, in 1708; and Malplaquet, in 1709; and 
left behind him on the continent a name that is still used to conjure with. In 1704, 
too, the English took possession of the celebrated rock-fortress of Gibraltar, in 
Spain, which they have ever since held. 

Peace came at last in the Treaty of Utrecht, in 171 3, with considerable 
advantages to England and her allies. Two years later Louis, "the Grand Monarch," 
died. He left France overwhelmed in debts, crushed beneath tyranny, and with 
industries prostrated — an ominous legacy for his weak and dissolute grandson. 

Spain and Portugal. 

Spain continued to decline, under a series of incompetent kings. An effort 
was made to annex Portugal, but the latter little country stoutly resisted the 
attacks of her big neighbor, and by means of alliances with France and England, 
was enabled to hold her own. Indeed, she did more, for she succeeded in planting 
an extensive colony in Brazil. 

Italy, divided into a number of petty states, was still the sport and prey of the 
greater powers, and often their fighting-ground. The one significant fact with her 
was the steady growth of Savoy in strength and influence. 

Nor was Germany much better off than Italy. Divisions and jealousies among 
the states kept them from enjoying the rank in European affairs to which they 
were naturally entitled. But there, too, the age was marked by the growth of a 
power destined one day to be dominant over all the rest. This was Prussia, which, 
beginning with the Electorate of Brandenburg, became practically an independent 
kingdom in 1656, although the royal title was not actually assumed for another half 
century. 

The religious disturbances in Austria and Hungary led to another invasion by 
the Turks, who came to the succor of the Protestants. In 1683 they laid siege to 
Vienna, and despite a most heroic defence, would doubtless have captured it had not 
the famous John Sobieski, King of Poland, come to its relief. Charles, Duke of 



5 oo HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Lorraine, also assisted in the rescue of the city, and later, in 1687, broke the power 
of the Turks in Hungary by a splendid victory at Mohacs. Upon that, the Hun- 
garian Diet conferred upon the House of Austria — the Lorraine family — the heredi- 
tary succession to the Hungarian throne. Finally, in 1697, Prince Eugene of Savoy 
won a brilliant victory over the Turks at Zenta, by which practically the whole of 
Hungary and Transylvania were redeemed from their control. Thereafter Turkish 
aggression ceased to be a source of anxiety to Europe. 

Charles XII. of Sweden. 

The greatness to which Gustavus Adolphus had raised Sweden was soon sacri- 
ficed by his successors. Charles X. became involved in war with Poland. He 
invaded that country, captured Warsaw, expelled the king, and proclaimed himself 
king. But a league of Russia, Denmark, Prussia and the rest of Germany was 
formed against the Swedes and they were driven from Poland with much loss. The 
next year Charles invaded Denmark and defeated its armies, but again was assailed 
by an overwhelming combination of powers and driven out with disastrous losses. 
He died in 1660, and under his young son, Charles XI., Sweden suffered further 
losses. But in the closing years of his reign and of the century this sovereign by 
wise administration largely restored the prosperity of the country. 

In 1697 Charles XII. succeeded to the Swedish throne and quickly showed him- 
self to be one of the greatest soldiers of the age. In 1700, when he was only 
eighteen years old, he was attacked by Denmark, Poland and Russia together. 
Undaunted, he first crushed Denmark. Then he conquered Poland and put a new 
king upon its throne. Then, after deposing the King of Saxony, he prepared to 
grapple with Russia, while all Europe looked on in wonder. At first he drove the 
Russians before him. But the dreadful climate proved too much for him, as it has 
for other invaders of that country. The terrible winter of 1709 so weakened his 
heroic army that it fell a victim to the overwhelming legions of Peter the Great at 
Pultowa. Charles was made a fugitive, and sought refuge in Turkey. There his 
indomitable will soon prepared for another attack upon Russia, which he pressed 
with such vigor that the Czar was saved from destruction only by the shrewdness 
of the Empress Catherine, who managed to buy off a large part of Charles' support. 

Peter the Great. 

Russia was now emerging from barbarism and beginning to take rank among 
the nations of civilized Europe. Alexis, the second of the Romanoff Czars, who 
ascended the throne in 1645, conquered Little Russia from Poland, built a navy, 
and did much to promote the arts and sciences. In 1696 the famous Peter the Great 
came to the throne. He was a savage in manners, cruel to the last degree, and a 
monster of vice and wickedness. But he had unbounded energy and ambition, and 
very great ability as an administrator. He learned shipbuilding and other useful 
trades by working as a common laborer in Germany, Holland and England. With 
the assistance of a Scotch soldier he re-organized his army and established the first 
real standing army in Russia. 



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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 503 

After the battle of Pultowa he seized and annexed to his empire several Swed- 
ish provinces on the Baltic, and thus for the first time gave Russia an outlet on that 
sea. He founded and built the city of St. Petersburg and made it his capital. 

The Times of Cromwell. 

After the execution of Charles I. Great Britain became a Commonwealth, or 
practical republic, under the headship of Oliver Cromwell. But that masterful man 
soon disagreed with Parliament, as the King had done. Accordingly he arbitrarily 
dismissed it and formed another entirely subservient to his will, and thereafter was 
king in all but name. Wars arose, foreign and domestic. The son of King Charles 
claimed the throne, and invaded the country, gaining a strong following, especially 
in Scotland. But Cromwell crushed his army at Dunbar and he had to flee to 
France. The Dutch made war also, and their great Admiral, Van Tromp won some 
notable victories over the British fleet. The famous Blake retrieved the honor of 
the British navy, however, and then entered upon a brilliant campaign against the 
Barbary States of North Africa. He also inflicted great losses upon Spain, and left 
at his death a name surpassed in British naval annals only by that of Nelson. 

During the Protectorate of Cromwell a great impetus was given to British trade 

and commerce, the British empire in the New World was much extended, and the 

prestige of British arms and British diplomacy was vastly enhanced throughout the 

world. Cromwell deserves to rank as one of the greatest of English rulers, in peace 

and in war. 

The Restoration. 

Cromwell died in 1658, and was succeeded by his son Richard. But the latter 
had no gift for ruling, and soon retired to private life, and the Stuart dynasty was 
restored in the person of Charles II., one of the most dissolute of monarchs. Under 
the Commonwealth stern Puritanism had prevailed. A reaction now set in. The 
court became the most licentious in the world, and society in general was debauched 
as never before or since in English history. The reign was marked by the acquisi- 
tion of the province of Bombay, in India, which came to Charles as the wedding- 
portion of his wife, a Portuguese princess, by the Great Plague in London in 1665, 
from which over 100,000 persons perished, and by the great fire which destroyed 
most of London in 1666. In 1667 a Dutch fleet entered the Medway and put Eng- 
land in greater peril of invasion than she had been in for seven centuries. 

The kingdom now seemed on the down grade. The king in his greed for money 
for the gratification of his vices, agreed to sell the honor of the country. He stipu- 
lated that if France would aid him, he and his brother James, his heir-presumptive, 
would become Roman Catholics and forcibly convert England to that faith. James 
did actually make this change of faith, but Charles hesitated to do so openly, though 
he was believed to have done so in private. The king produced a financial panic by 
arbitrarily seizing for his own use more than a million pounds of the public funds. 
Torture and the burning of heretics were revived, and innumerable acts of gross 
tyranny were committed. 



5o 4 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Preparing; for Revolution. 

This state of affairs aroused popular wrath, and a revolutionary spirit began to 
show itself. A religious war broke out in Scotland, but was soon suppressed. Then 
the king's illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth, joined several other noblemen 
in a plot to force the king to govern constitutionally. They failed, and all the 
leaders except Monmouth himself were put to death. In 1685 Charles died, to the 
great relief of his long-suffering subjects. He was succeeded by his brother James, 
who was at first regarded with hope by the nation. But he soon showed himself 
worse even than Charles. The Earl of Argyle raised a rebellion in Scotland, but 
was defeated and put to death. The same fate attended Monmouth, who led a re- 
volt in the south of England. The infamous Judge Jeffries then went on circuit, 
and put to death hundreds of persons who were merely suspected of having sympa- 
thized with Monmouth. 

The next step of the king was to try to force the people to accept the Roman 
Catholic religion. That brought affairs to a crisis, and the people determined to 
rebel. 

William of Orange, 

In their extremity they turned to the king's daughter, Mary, who was 
a Protestant and was married to Prince William of Orange. They invited 
her and her husband to come over and take the throne. James fled to 
France, and a National Convention met, declared the throne vacant, and 
elected William and Mary joint sovereigns. The latter accepted the trust, and 
thus the almost bloodless Revolution of 1689 was effected. Parliament then 
undid the despotic legislation James had forced upon the country, and enacted 
a law of succession, providing that thereafter only Protestants should be eligible 
to the throne. 

James made several efforts to regain the crown. One rebellion in his favor 
was started in Scotland by Grahame of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, but 
dwindled away after the death of its leader, who fell at the battle of Killecrankie, 
in the moment of victory. James himself led a rebellion in Ireland, which lasted for 
some years. It was made memorable by the defence of Londonderry, which with- 
stood a long siege by James's army in the most heroic manner conceivable. In 1690 
the Battle of the Boyne was fought, in which William and James confronted each 
other as rival commanders, and James was utterly routed, largely because of his per- 
sonal cowardice. 

William's reign was largely occupied with wars, in Ireland and on the conti- 
nent. He was opposed to some of the most renowned generals and to far stronger 
armies than his own. He was sometimes defeated, and sometimes victorious. But 
his consummate skill and his great personal valor entitled him to the rank he won, as 
one of the foremost captains and ablest rulers of his age. He died in 1701, leaving 
the throne to his daughter Anne. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 505 

"Good Queen Anne." 

In the second year of Anne's reign a great continental war was begun, in which 
the British army was led by John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. This extraordi- 
nary man, who has already been spoken of, was utterly devoid of moral or political 
principle, and in his greed for gold committed many infamous acts. But as a military 
genius he must be placed in the very highest rank, along with Hannibal, Caesar, and 
Bonaparte. He won every battle in which he was ever engaged, and captured every 
town he ever besieged. Of no other commander of comparable experience can thai 
be said. He was, moreover, opposed to some commanders who weie otherwise 
quite invincible, but who could make no stand against him. 

The most noteworthy event of the reign, in domestic affairs, was the enactment 
of complete union with Scotland. The reign was made memorable by high literary 
and scientific achievements of Addison, Newton and others scarcely less famous. 

India* 

The Mogul empire in India was now declining. Shah Jehan, grandson of the 
great Akbar, was a capable ruler, but could not prevent the loss of Afghanistan and 
other provinces. He was finally deposed by his son, Aurungzebe, and died in 
prison. Aurungzebe was a strong ruler, but tyrannical and hypocritical. In 1680 
his power was disputed by Sivajee, who formed a league of the Mahratta States 
against him and seriously impaired the strength of his empire. Aurungzebe died in 
1707, after a long and magnificent reign, but left no successor able to withstand the 
disintegrating forces that were already at work, and the condition of the empire 
thereafter soon became hopelessly chaotic. 

At about this time French and English settlers began to find their way into 
China, and Formosa and Thibet were added to that empire. 

The American Colonies. 

The first permanent British colony in America was made at Jamestown, in 
what is now Virginia, in 1607. This was done under the patronage of the London 
Company, which sent thither three small ships with about a hundred colonists. 
The chief man among them was the celebrated Captain John Smith. He had 
already had a most adventurous and romantic career in the Old World as a soldier 
and sailor. At Jamestown he fell into the hands of Powhatan, a great Indian chief, 
who was at first minded to put him to death. But the chief's daughter, Pocahontas, 
intervened and persuaded her father to spare Smith's life. Thereafter friendly 
relations were established and maintained between the colonists and the Indians. 
Smith was made President of the colony, and Pocahontas married Thomas Rolfe, 
one of the colonists. She returned to England with him, and died there a few years 
later, leaving a son, from whom many distinguished Virginians have been descended. 

The Dutch planted a colony at what is now the city of New York in 1614, and 
another at Albany. They based their claim to the region upon the discoveries of 
Henry Hudson, an Englishman in the employ of the Dutch East India Company, 
who first explored the Hudson River. 



5o6 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Plymouth Rock. 

Most noteworthy of all was the colony planted at Plymouth, Massachusetts, 
on December 20, 1620. This was established by Englishmen belonging to the 
Congregational Church. They had been persecuted in England on account of their 
dissent from the established church, and first sought a refuge in Holland. Finally 
they came to America to found a colony where they might have freedom to worship 
God according to the dictates of their own conscience. They sailed from Plymouth, 
in England on September 16, 1620, in the little ship Mayflower, and reached the 
American coast on December 20. For many months they had great hardships to 
endure, and many of them died. But the survivors persevered and made a perma- 
nent settlement which ultimately grew into the most important of all the English 
colonies in America. 

At first they got along in friendly fashion with the Indians, especially with the 
great chiefs Samoset and Massasoit. But the son of the latter, King Philip, was 
their deadly and unrelenting foe. A bitter war was waged with him which ended 
with his death and the dispersion of his tribe. 

Colonies were planted by the Swedes in Delaware, but these together with 
the Dutch colonies, presently fell into the hands of the English as spoils of war, and 
all the north Atlantic coast as far south as Florida, which Spain held, became 
English territory. 

Dates of Settlement. 

As already said, Virginia was settled at Jamestown in 1607, and it may be 
added that negro slavery was introduced into the North American colonies there in 
1620. New York was settled by the Dutch at New York — then called New Am- 
sterdam — and Albany, in 1614. It was taken by the English and its name changed 
to the present form in 1664. Massachusetts was settled at Plymouth in 1620, 
by English Puritans. New Hampshire was settled by the English in 1628. New 
Jersey was settled by the Dutch and was taken by the English in 1664. Delaware 
was first settled by the Dutch in 1627, and then by Swedes in 1635, and taken by 
the English in 1664. Maine was settled in 1630 as a dependency of Massachusetts. 
Maryland was settled by Roman Catholics in 1633. Connecticut was settled by 
emigrants from Massachusetts in 1635. Rhode Island dates from 1635, and was 
planted by exiles from Massachusetts who had been driven out because of their 
religious belief. North Carolina dates from 1659, South Carolina from 1670, and 
Georgia from 1733. Pennsylvania was settled in 1682 by the Society of Friends, 
or Quakers. These were the original colonies, from which have grown the United 
States. 

France Preparing for Revolution. 

Louis XV. of France was only five years old when he succeeded his grand- 
father, Louis XIV. A regency was therefore necessary, and the duties of it were 
first filled by the Duke of Orleans, a man of singularly depraved morals. After 
doing all he could to corrupt the young king, he died and was succeeded by the 



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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Duke of Bourbon, who presently fell into disgrace and was dismissed from the court 
when, in 1726, at the age of sixteen, Louis took the reins of government into his own 
hands. The young king did not trust himself to rule absolutely, however, but made 
his tutor, Cardinal Fleury, his Minister, and that mild and amiable ecclesiastic ; 
France for a time a peaceful government. Fleury found the finances of the country 
in desperate disorder and the whole nation, indeed, on the veix r e of ruin. By his 
wisdom and uprightness he accomplished wonders, and restored a large measure of 
prosperity and honor to the stricken country. 

But Fleury was an old man, and though he lived almost to the century mark 
the end had to come at last. After seventeen years of beneficent rule he died, and 
in that hour fate seemed to set its seal of woe against France. Freed from the ; 
influence of Fleury, the king showed how well he had learned the lessons of the 
infamous Regent. He gaye himself up to such debaucheries as Europe had scarcely 
seen since the days of Tiberius and Heliogabalus. He allowed his mistresses to 
rule the kingdom as they pleased, while he spent his time in his harem. He 
plundered the nation to get funds for the gratification of his vices and the extrava- 
gant whims of his herd of paramours. He even engaged in the scandalous traffic of 
a monopoly of corn, raising the price of bread and driving many of his subjects to 
starvation in order to maintain his vicious court in luxury. 

France soon became involved in war with Austria and England, over the 
succession to the Austrian and Polish thrones and over the French colonies in 
America. In 1743 the French were badly beaten at Dettingen by the English under 
King George II. Two years later the French won a victory at Fontenoy over the 
English, being greatly assisted by a brigade of Irish exiles. The war went on with 
varying results until 1748, when a peace was made which was little to the advantage 
of France. That country was indeed almost bankrupt and in a state of utter 
wretchedness, and the people began to think of revolution as the only means of 
saving themselves from complete destruction. 

" After Us the Deluge!" 

A losing war was waged in North America, the net result of which was that all 
of Canada was lost to France. In India the genius of two great commanders secured 
a splendid empire from the falling Moguls, but it too was lost in the battle of 
Plassey, in 1757, when Clive made British arms supreme in those regions. But the 
detestable king was past all sense of duty or of shame. He only abandoned 
himself the more to sensual pleasures, while Pompadour, Du Barry, and the other 
creatures who surrounded him merely said, " After us, the deluge \" and went on 
in the road to ruin, carrying the kingdom with them. 

The sole advantages gained by France in these times were the conquests of 
Lorraine and Corsica, the latter making a gallant but ineffectual struggle for freedom 
under the celebrated patriot, Pascal Paoli. 

In 1765 the king's son and heir died. He had been a wise and virtuous prince, 
but for that very reason hated and ill-treated by the king. His son, the king's 
25 



5io HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

grandson, then became heir to the throne, and succeeded to it when, in 1774, the 
worthless king died of smallpox. 

Spain and Portugal. 

The history of Spain at this time was not particularly eventful. The kingdom 
was still on the down grade, though one or two fairly good kings did a little to retard 
the process of dissolution. Most of the West India islands were however lost — 
taken by the English. 

Portuguese history was marked with the good work of Pombal, the great 
Minister, who reformed the government, and with the terrible earthquake at Lisbon 
in 1755, in which 30,000 people lost their lives. 

In Italy the Duke of Savoy became King of Sardinia, and thus took another 
long step in the road which was in time to lead to a reunited and powerful Italy. 
The rest of the country remained, however, the prey of foreign powers. 

Frederick the Great. 

The rise of Prussia was the leading feature of German history in the eighteenth 
century. Frederick William I. came to the throne of the new kingdom in 171 3 
and laid the foundations of its military greatness. He was a rude despot, but he 
formed a strong standing army of 83,000 men and made it the best equipped force 
in Europe. He also added considerably to the extent of Prussia by conquest from 
Sweden. In 1740 he died and was succeeded by Frederick the Great. In the 
same year the death of Charles VI. extinguished the male line of the Hapsburgs, 
rulers of Austria-Hungary, and plunged Europe into war over the succession to 
that throne. 

The true heir to the throne was Maria Theresa, daughter of Charles. But 
her cousin, Charles Albert of Bavaria, was also a claimant, on the ground that a 
woman could not inherit it. There were also several other claimants. Frederick 
the Great offered to help Maria Theresa if she would let him have Silesia. She 
refused, whereupon he went to war against her, and got France, Spain, Bavaria, 
and Saxony to join him in it. In her extremity Maria Theresa made a personal 
appeal to the Hungarians, who responded to it with great enthusiasm. They soon 
conquered Bavaria and held the French in check at Prague. Then a compromise 
was made with Frederick, by which he received Silesia, whereupon he withdrew 
from the alliance against Maria Theresa. Then the intervention of England and 
the victory of Dettingen turned the scale so strongly in favor of Austria, that 
Frederick became alarmed, fearing Maria Theresa would become too strong and 
would demand Silesia back. Accordingly he again made war against her, with 
varying results, until the peace of 1748. 

Thereafter he devoted himself to the peaceful development of his country for 
a time. Then the rapid rise of Prussia excited the jealousies of other powers, and 
Austria, France and Russia combined to crush her. Frederick did not wait to be 
attacked but assumed the aggressive at once. He first routed the Saxons and 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 511 

Austrians and compelled the former to join him and fight on his side. Then Austria 

and Russia determined to divide his kingdom between them, with the aid of their 

allies, France and Sweden. But England took Frederick's part and gave him much 

assistance. After some disasters Frederick routed the French at Rossbach, and the 

Austrians at Leuthen, and then the Russians at Zorndorff, But as fast as one 

enemy was disposed of another appeared or was revived. With almost all Europe 

against him this wonderful king and warrior struggled on undismayed. At last 

peace came in 1763. Prussia did not gain any territory as a result of all her 

wars, but she won undisputed rank as one of the great powers. In the 

peace that followed Frederick showed himself as great an administrator as he was 

a soldier. 

The Hanoverians. 

On the death of Queen Anne the British crown went to George, Elector of 
Hanover, and thus the Hanoverian dynasty in England was founded. The new king 
could not speak a word of English and was by no means popular, especially as he 
seemed inclined to subordinate the interests of England to those of Hanover. His 
short reign ended in 1727, and he was succeeded by his son, George II., whose mili- 
tary prowess made him more popular. In his reign the battle of Dettigen was won, 
as previously noted; Commodore Anson sailed around the world despoiling the 
treasure-ships of Spain ; Clive drove the French from India and won an Empire there 
for England; Canada and other provinces were taken in America; Boscawen and 
Hawke almost annihilated the French navy ; and Coote continued the work of Clive 
in India. The elder Pitt was the presiding genius of the Government, and he raised 
England to the summit of power and glory. 

In 1760 the king died and was succeeded by his grandson, George III. The latter 
could speak English, which neither of his Hanoverian predecessors could do. His 
morals were irreproachable, and he was so good-hearted as to command much real 
affection. Unhappily he was also narrow, bigoted and stubborn, and not always 
wise in his choice of Ministers. Misgovernment was now alienating the American 
colonies, and the king would do nothing to stop the process. His Minister, Gren- 
ville, in 1765, secured the passage of the Stamp Act, a very obnoxious tax-law, and 
insisted upon the right to tax the colonies at will without giving them representation 
in the government. Against this suicidal course Pitt, Burke and other wise coun- 
sellors protested eloquently, but in vain. In 1770 the king found in Lord North a 
Minister willing to be even more despotic over the colonies. The natural result 
was soon apparent. The colonies rebelled and declared themselves independent. 

In India, the Mogul and Mahratta powers steadily declined, and British influ- 
ence increased. After the triumphs of Clive and Coote, Warren Hastings became 
Governor of British India. He conducted the government with marvellous ability 
through enormous difficulties, but was charged with many acts of oppression 
and injustice, for which he was called home and put on trial. After one of the most 
famous trials in history, in which the foremost Englishmen of the day were engaged, 
he was acquitted. 



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CHAPTER IV. 



THE PRESENT ERA. 

THE WAR BEGINS -THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION— WAR OF 1812— THE FRENCH REVO- 
lution— the reign of terror— rise of bonaparte— the empire— fall of 
bonaparte— british affairs— american growth— some minor states— 
a revolutionary era — italy — germany — england and india— 
the united states — the slavery question — the great 
Rebellion — Freedom and Victory — The Return of 
peace — the French empire and Republic — 
The Terrible Year— Great Britain— Rus- 
sia AND TURKEY — CHINA AND JAPAN 

— Cuba — closing Years. 



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The Present Era. 

HE last quarter of the eighteenth century was marked with two stupendous 
revolutions, one in each hemisphere, which produced greater changes in 
human affairs than any events that had occurred for ages. One was the 
War of the Revolution in America, the other was the French Revolution. The for- 
mer was the earlier in date, and demands first consideration in this narrative. 

The causes that led to it were persistent acts of injustice committed by the 
British Government. That the mass of the British people approved them is not to 
be believed. Many of the foremost and most representative British statesmen 
protested against them and urged a course of justice and conciliation. All was in 
vain. The King was stubborn and his Ministers fatuous. The American colonies 
were subjected to burdensome taxation and denied the right of representation in the 
Government that taxed them. Open rebellion soon showed itself in the New 
England colonies and spread through them all. In 1773 several cargoes of taxed 
tea were thrown overboard at Boston by the colonists. The next year a Conti- 
nental Congress met at Philadelphia and drew up a Bill of Rights. 

The War Begins* 

The war for independence began in 1775, with the battles of Lexington and 
Concord, in Massachusetts. In May of that year George Washington of Virginia 
was made Commander-in-Chief of the forces of all the colonies. In June came 
the famous battle of Bunker's Hill. Thus far the colonists had little thought of 
actual independence, but aimed merely at securing reforms and concessions. But 

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HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 515 

now they saw their only course was to sever themselves entirely from the Old 
Country. Accordingly on July 4, 1776, the Congress adopted a Declaration of In- 
dependence, and thus made of the colonies a new nation among the powers of the 
world. 

At first the war went against the Americans. Boston and New York were 
occupied by the British, and the Americans were put upon the defensive. But 
Washington and his aids, especially Green, displayed great ability and valor. The 
British were beaten at Trenton, Princeton and elsewhere. Their army under Bur- 
goyne was captured at Saratoga. Then France recognized the independence of the 
colonies and gave them material aid. In 1780 Benedict Arnold, maddened by the 
unjust treatment given him by Congress, turned traitor and sought to betray the 
American posts on the Hudson River to the British. His treason was detected and 
baffled. He made his escape, but his chief aid, Major Andre, of the British army, 
was taken and hanged as a spy. 

Thereafter the war went steadily against the British. In 1781 their principal 
commander, Lord Cornwallis, surrendered at Yorktown, Virginia, and the war was 
practically ended. Great Britain recognized the independence of the United States, 
as the colonies were now called, and concluded a treaty of peace with what was 
destined to become one of the greatest nations in the world. 

The American Constitution. 

The confederation of the thirteen colonies was soon exchanged for a more 
stable form of government. A National Constitution was adopted, and in 1789 the 
first Federal Congress met at New York, and George Washington was chosen the 
first President of the United States. The growth of the nation in population, wealth 
and territory was steady and rapid. Vermont was admitted as the fourteenth 
state in 1791, Kentucky as the fifteenth in 1792, Tennessee as the sixteenth in 
1796, and at the commencement of the next century, Ohio as the seventeenth. 
Then, in 1803, the Government purchased from France the whole vast territory 
between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, thus more than doubling 
the size of the country. 

Washington was President for eight years, and was succeeded by John Adams 
for four years. Next came Thomas Jefferson, for eight years, and under his 
administration relations with England became strained over commercial rights. 
This culminated in another war in the administration of the next President, James 
Madison. 

War of *8*2- 

The war began in 1812, and lasted over two years. The Americans invaded 
Canada, but were beaten, and were generally unsuccessful on the land. The 
British invaded Maryland, and wantonly burned the City of Washington, which 
had been made the capital. But on the sea the Americans won a series of brilliant 
victories, as they also did on Lakes Champlain and Erie, thus for the first time 
successfully challenging the then almost undisputed supremacy of England as a sea 



5 i6 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

power. The war ended with a brilliant American victory, won by General Jackson 
at New Orleans, which took place after the treaty of peace had been signed, but 
before the news of it reached this country. 

The French Revolution. 

In the meantime great things were happening in Europe. Discontent in France 
increased in spite of the amiable intentions of Louis XVI., and the admirable work 
of his ministers, Turgot and Neckar. Financial troubles compelled the King to 
summon a Parliament, the first in two centuries, to consider the state of the coun- 
try. That body soon manifested revolutionary tendencies, and an inclination to 
abolish the ancient privileges of the nobility, and to restrict the authority of the King 
with a Constitution. On July 14, 1789, the mob of Paris took affairs into its own 
hands. It stormed the great prison of the Bastile, and then marched to Versailles, 
and compelled the King and his family to return to Paris with them and make that 
city his capital. 

The King was soon forced to accept a Constitution, which made a single Parlia- 
mentary chamber the practical ruler of the country. Then a disposition to abolish 
the monarchy was manifested. For a time this was kept in check by the personal 
influence of the great orator and statesman, Mirabeau. Unfortunately he died in 
1791, and no check was left upon the passions of the revolutionists. 

The Reign of Terror. 

Maximilien Robespierre, head of the Jacobin Club, now became the dominant 
force in the government. The King and royal family were made prisoners. This 
enraged the surrounding nations so that they joined in a war against France. The 
French armies defended the frontiers with marvellous courage and skill, while a 
Reign of Terror was established within the Kingdom. Under the administration of 
Robespierre, Danton, Marat, and others of like character, all who were even sus- 
pected of royalist principles were put to death, often with hideous tortures. The 
King was hurried through a mockery of a trial and beheaded. The Queen was 
similarly disposed of after being subjected to infamous physical outrages. The 
Princess Lamballe, a beautiful woman of saintly character, was thrown out to the 
mob in the street and there outraged to death and then her dead body further out- 
raged and mutilated and even partly devoured. The Prince Royal, a lad of tender 
years, was slowly tortured to death. 

All over France like infamies were perpetrated upon royalists and upon all 
whose property was coveted by the greedy tyrants. Churches were confiscated, 
the Christian religion proscribed under penalty of death, and a lewd woman from a 
brothel was set upon the altar of the cathedral in Paris and worshipped with obscene 
rites. At Nantes 15,000 innocent persons were butchered in three months. Marat, 
one of the most bloodthirsty of the tyrants, was put to death by the noble Charlotte 
Corday, who gave her own life to rid France of his. Then the bloody Junta began 
fighting among themselv< s. Danton and others were put to death by their old com- 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 517 

rades. Finally there was a revolt against Robespierre himself. He was guillotined, 
and thus the Reign of Terror was ended, and the government passed into the hands 
of more moderate and humane men. 

Rise of Bonaparte. 

The armies of France had been successful against the allied foes, thanks to the 
genius of Carnot, the great War Minister, and the leadership of Hoche, Jourdan, 
Moreau, and other generals. At the siege of Toulon a young artillery officer from 
Corsica, named Napoleon Bonaparte, won distinction, and he soon rose to prom- 
inence. In 1796 he was entrusted with the command of an army to invade Italy. 
He crossed the Alps, compelled the King of Sardinia to cede territory to France and 
become its ally, defeated the Austrians, who then possessed most of Italy, in a 
wonderful series of battles at Lodi, Areola, Rivoli, and elsewhere, and finally dic- 
tated a peace under which France gained Belgium, the Ionian Islands and the left 
bank of the Rhine. 

Bonaparte next planned an invasion of England, but finally set out for the East 
instead, intent on seizing the British possessions in Asia. He invaded Egypt and 
conquered it. But the British fleet under Nelson followed and destroyed his fleet 
in the great battle of the Nile, in 1798. Bonaparte then marched into Syria, and 
after an indecisive campaign, made his way back to France, leaving his army to its 
own devices. In France affairs had been going badly. The Government was in- 
competent and the armies were falling back before the hosts of allied Europe. 
Bonaparte quickly made a coup d'etat, under which he was made military dictator 
under the guise of Consul. He soon concluded a peace on terms advantageous to 
France, and then set about reorganizing the domestic government, which he did in 
a manner on the whole admirable. 

The Empire. 

At first Bonaparte was Consul for ten years. But in 1802 he proclaimed him- 
self Consul for life, and two years later he proclaimed himself Emperor, and com- 
pelled the Pope to come to Paris, and crown him as such. The next year he horri- 
fied Europe by murdering the young duke of Enghien, a descendant of the Condes, 
and war was declared against him by England, Austria, Russia, and Sweden, while 
Spain sided with France. In the battle of Ulm the French routed the Austrians, but 
in the sea-fight of Trafalgar the British, under Nelson, annihilated the fleets of 
France and Spain combined. At Austerlitz Napoleon again crushed the allied armies 
and then made peace with Austria and Prussia, gaining great accessions of territory. 
The next war was with Prussia and Russia. Napoleon vanquished the former at 
Jena and the latter at Friedland, and dictated peace on his own terms. His brothers 
were made kings of Holland, Naples and Westphalia, and he himself was Protector 
of the Rhine Provinces. All Europe was now at his side, or his feet, except Eng- 
land, which stubbornly held out against him. Accordingly he entered upon a cam- 
paign for the destruction of that power. 



5iS HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

He declared a blockade of all English ports, which he was, of course, unable to 
make effective. Portugal and Spain demurred at so senseless an order, whereupon 
he sent an army against the one, and made his brother King of the other. A British 
army, under the Duke of Wellington, baffled him in Portugal, and then, advancing 
into Spain, defeated his ablest Marshals, and finally expelled the entire French 
forces, inflicting upon them a loss of more than 400,000 men. 

Fall of Bonaparte. 

Another war with Austria ended in the battle of Wagram, in which the 
Austrians were crushed. Meanwhile Napoleon divorced his wife, Josephine, to 
whom he owed much of his success, and wedded in her place Maria Louisa, daughter 
of the Austrian emperor, who bore him a son, called the King of Rome. The 
Emperor was now, in 181 1, at the summit of his power. But his fall was near. 
Out of wanton desire to control the whole continent, he began war against Russia, 
and invaded that country in 1812 with half a million men. He crushed a Russian 
army at Borodino, and captured Moscow. But the Russians burned that city over 
his head, and, deprived of shelter and supplies, his army was forced to retreat in 
midwinter. Its sufferings were indescribable, it was harassed by the Cossacks, and 
scarcely a regiment of the great host ever got back to France. 

With almost superhuman energy he raised another army and faced the allied 
foes who now closed in around him. England was the head of the league and 
supplied money for all. Russia, Prussia, Sweden, and at last Austria, were her 
allies. Napoleon defeated their armies at Lutzen and Bautzen, and at Dresden, his 
last great victory. At Leipzic in October, 181 3, was fought the "Battle of the 
Nations," in which he was utterly routed. Further conflicts ensued, but early in 
1 814 the allies entered France, captured Paris, and compelled him to abdicate. The 
Island of Elba was given to him for a realm, and he was allowed to retain his 
imperial title. The Bourbons were restored to the throne of France, the King 
being Louis XVIII. , brother of Louis XVI., the Dauphin who had been murdered in 
the Reign of Terror being reckoned Louis XVII. A Congress of the Powers restored 
most of the European states to the condition they were in before Napoleon disturbed 
them. 

But they were not yet through with the Corsican. He escaped from Elba and 
landed at Cannes early in 1815. His old soldiers flocked to him and he entered 
Paris in triumph. For a hundred days he ruled France again. But Europe rose 
against him as the common enemy. He raised a great army and marched into 
Belgium. There he met and defeated at Ligny, on June 16, a German army under 
Blucher. Twelve days later he hurled himself against a composite army, the 
central portion of which was an English force under Wellington. The Battle of 
Waterloo ensued, in which the French were utterly routed. Napoleon fled, 
v.rrendered to the British, and was sent to the island of St. Helena as a prisoner for 
life. He died there in 1821. 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD, 519 

British Affairs. 

The history of nearly all the rest of Europe is included in that of France during 
the period of which we have just been speaking. Great Britain had, however, 
other troubles than those with France and America. In 1791 an association called 
the United Irishmen, strove to separate Ireland from England. The insurrection 
was suppressed, and after ten years of agitation the Irish Parliment was abolished 
and the present union with England formed. Another Irish rebellion under Robert 
Emmett was suppressed in 1803. In 1806 the greatest British Minister of the age, 
William Pitt, died, but his policy was ably continued by his pupil, George Canning. 
About this time the British slave trade was abolished. It is also interesting to 
observe that in the midst of all this storm and stress, in 1788, the first English 
colony in Australia was planted, at Port Jackson, now Sydney. 

American Growth. 

After the War of 1812 the United States rapidly grew in all directions. In 1815 
a fleet under Commodore Decatur was sent to the Mediterranean to suppress Alger- 
ine piracy which had long been the scourge of Europe. Two years later James 
Monroe became President, and in time put forth his famous ''Doctrine" to the 
effect that no further conquests of American soil must be attempted by European 
powers. A war with the Seminole Indians followed, and General Jackson pursued 
them into the swamps of Florida. That territory still belonged to Spain, but Jack- 
son ignored the Spanish authorities, and Florida was presently ceded to the United 
States. Mississippi, Illinois, Alabama, and Maine were successively taken into the 
Union, and then the slavery question began to cause trouble. When Missouri 
applied for admission, the free states objected because she would be a slave state. 
Finally the " Missouri Compromise " was made, under which it was agreed that no 
slave state should thereafter be made north of the parallel of 36 deg. 30 min. N. lat. 
Then Missouri was admitted as the twenty-fourth state. 

John Quincy Adams succeeded Monroe, and Andrew Jackson came after him. 
Under Jackson the "spoils system" in politics was established. South Carolina 
objected to the protective tariff and threatened to secede, declaring the law was 
null and void. Jackson coerced her into submission. There were Indian wars in 
Florida and Wisconsin, and Arkansas and Michigan were added to the Union. 

Some Minor States. 

Under Napoleon, Holland and Belgium were a part of France. After his fall 
they were made an independent kingdom under the Prince of Orange, who became 
William I. In 1831 the Belgians seceded and established a separate kingdom of 
their own. 

Sweden was compelled in 1809 to give up Finland to Russia. In 1814 Sweden 
and Norway were united under a common King, though each retained its own Par- 
liament and Ministry. Bernadotte, formerly one of Napoleon's Marshals, became 
King, and established a new dynasty in 1818. 






520 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

Poland, which had first been partitioned among Russia, Prussia and Austria in 
1772, and again in 1794-5, finally disappeared as even a nominal kingdom in 1832, 
when, after ruthless suppression of an insurrection, it was incorporated fully into 
the Russian empire. 

The British settlement of Australia and New Zealand proceeded apace. West- 
ern Australia was founded in 1829, South Australia in 1834, and Victoria in 1835. 
In 185 1 gold was discovered near Sydney, and thereafter the growth of the colonies 
was more rapid than that of any other community in the world. 

In South America the Spanish provinces revolted one after another in the early 
part of the century, until all became independent republics, excepting British, Dutch 
and French Guiana, and the Empire of Brazil, which became independent of Portu- 
gal, its founder, in Napoleonic times. 

A Revolutionary Era. 

The revolution of 1848 in France, which expelled Louis Philippe, was the be- 
ginning of an era of revolutions throughout Europe. The French established a 
republic, and elected as their President Louis Napoleon, a nephew of Napoleon 
Bonaparte who, during the preceding reign had made two futile attemps to get him- 
self declared Emperor. In December, 185 1, he committed the great crime known 
as the Coup d'Etat, arbitrarily imprisoning the chief republican statesmen and 
making himself Dictator. Next he compelled the people to elect him President for 
ten years, and then Emperor, under the title of Napoleon III., the son of Napoleon 
who died in boyhood without reigning being reckoned Napoleon II. To give military 
glory to his ill-won crown, he soon involved himself in war with Russia, on the pre- 
text that the latter was about to seize Constantinople. England became his ally, 
and the Crimean war was fought, in 1854 6. Notable battles were fought at the 
Alma River, Balakava, and Inkermann, and after a hard siege Sebastopol was cap- 
tured and then peace was made. An Anglo-French war against China followed in 
185860, in which Pekin was taken and sacked. 

In 1859 the French Emperor began a war against Austria ostensibly to aid Italy 
in securing her independence. Italy had already risen to regain Lombardy and 
Venice. At Magenta and Solferino the Austrians were defeated and a treaty of 
peace was concluded by which Lombardy was given to Sardinia and Venice left to 
Austria, while France seized Savoy and Nice. 

Italy. 

Joseph Mazzini was the first leader of the Italian revolution, and Charles Al- 
bert, King of Sardinia, was looked to as the coming sovereign of a reunited Italy. 
But Mazzini was impractical, and Charles Albert was not able to hold his own 
against the superior power of Austria. Little was therefore gained until Charles 
Albert's son, Victor Emanuel, came to the throne with Count Cavour as his chief 
Minister. Then with the aid of France, Lombardy was regained. Naples was 
groaning under the oppression of the tyrant Ferdinand, and rebellion became 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. <;2i 

rampant there. Ferdinand died in 1859, anci tnen tne country arose against his son, 
Francis II., under the lead of Giuseppe Garibaldi, a daring soldier who had already 
distinguished himself in the war with Austria. With a thousand followers Garibaldi 
went from Genoa to Sicily and quickly freed it and then Naples from Francis's rule. 
Francis fled, and his kingdom was annexed to Sardinia, and all Italy, except Romt- 
and its environs, was united under Victor Emmanuel. 

Germany. 

Simultaneously with the Revolution of 1848 in France, a spirit of revolt against 
absolutism was manifested in Germany, together with a strong desire for reunion of 
the various states into one empire. Violent outbreaks occurred here and there, 
which were sternly repressed. But the net result was that Prussia and other states 
were compelled to adopt constitutional forms of government. 

The most serious outbreak occurred in Hungary, against the tyranny and re- 
action of the Austrian Emperor. Under the lead of Louis Kossuth the Hungarians 
proclaimed their independence and established a republic. They were at first suc- 
cessful in the field, driving the Austrians before them and forcing the Emperor to 
abdicate in favor of his nephew, the present Emperor. The aid of Russia was then 
sought and given, and the Hungarians were crushed with great barbarity, and for 
years their land was treated as a conquered province. 

England and India. 

Great Britain was meanwhile increasing the extent of her Indian empire, 
though at much cost. In 1857 the insurrection known as the Sepoy Mutiny occurred, 
provoked by bad administration. It was marked by the hideous massacre of 
English women and children at Cawnpore, the heroic defence of Lucknow and its 
rescue by Outram and Havelock, and the capture of Delhi by the unrivalled hero, 
Nicholson. 

The United States. 

Martin Van Buren became the eighth President of the United States in 1837. 
Four years later he was succeeded by W. H. Harrison, who died within a month 
and was succeeded by the Vice-President, John Tyler. In his administration the 
Northwest boundary dispute with England was settled, and Oregon and Iowa and the 
vast region between them became part of the national domain. Texas also, which 
had won its independence from Mexico, was annexed. 

Under the next President, James K. Polk, Iowa and Texas became states. An 
uncalled-for war with Mexico was then provoked, and under the lead of General 
Taylor the latter was subdued and compelled to relinquish much territory to the 
United States. In 1849 Wisconsin was admitted as a State, and General Taylor be- 
came President. He died a year later and was succeeded by the Vice-President, 
Millard Fillmore. At this time the discovery of gold in California caused an enor- 
mous rush of settlers to that territory. 



522 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

The Slavery Question. 

The question of African slavery in the United States, long troublesome, now 
became acute. Anti-Slavery organizations were formed in the North, for the pur- 
pose of aiding runaway slaves to escape. The South on the other hand strove by 
legislation to force the North to return slaves to their masters. The struggle 
resolved itself into a fight for the control of Congress. In 1852 Franklin Pierce, a 
pro-slavery man, was elected President. Kansas and Nebraska were organized as 
territories and the question whether they were to be free or slave was left to their 
own people. The North then sought to colonize them with anti-slavery settlers, 
and succeeded, but the South, by provoking a practical state of civil war, forcibly 
prevented them from organizing on a free basis. In 1856 another pro-slavery 
President, James Buchanan, was elected. John Brown, the leader of the anti- 
slavery party in Kansas, after having his son murdered by the pro-slavery men and 
finding that the National government was not disposed to protect the rights of free 
men in Kansas, came to Harper's Ferry, Virginia, and organized a rebellion of slaves 
against slavery. This was in 1859. He was captured and hanged, but the incident 
startled the whole country and revealed the imminence of the final struggle between 
freedom and slavery. In this administration Minnesota and Oregon were added to 
the Union. They were sure to be free states. Then in i860 an anti-slavery man, 
Abraham Lincoln, was elected President, and the slave states realized that they 
were beaten at last, and so resolved to secede from the Union. 

The Great Rebellion. 

Without waiting for Lincoln to be installed and to reveal his policy, South 
Carolina seceded and was followed by nearly all the other slave States. Delegates 
were sent to Montgomery, Alabama, and a provisional government formed, under 
the style of the Confederate States of America. Jefferson Davis was chosen 
President. The government was afterward made permanent in character and re- 
moved to Richmond, Virginia. In April, 1861, the Confederate troops fired upon 
Fort Sumpter, in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina, and thus one of the 
greatest wars of modern times was begun. 

President Lincoln called for volunteers and declared the ports of the rebel states 
to be in a state of blockade. Great Britain, France and Spain promptly recognized 
the insurgents as belligerents, and permitted much aid to be given to them by the 
fitting out of privateers to prey upon United States commerce. A pretty effective 
blockade was soon established along the whole coast. In the first battles on land 
the insurgents were successful, and at Bull Run the Federal army was routed. In 
1862 the Federals captured Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, in Tennessee, and won 
the great battle of Pittsburg Landing. These victories were chiefly owing to the 
genius of General U. S. Grant. Meantime Commodore Farragut captured New 
Orleans with his fleet. The chief Federal army under General McClellan was 
unable to make any headway against the Confederates under Robert E. Lee and 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 523 

"Stonewall" Jackson, in Virginia. Indeed the national capital itself was on sev- 
eral occasions menaced by the Confederates. 

Freedom and Victory. 

On January 1, 1863, President Lincoln issued a proclamation emancipating all 
the slaves. The following summer Lee invaded Pennsylvania, and at the beginning 
of July a great three-days' battle was fought between his army and the army of 
the Potomac — formerly commanded by McClellan, but now by George G. Meade — 
at Gettysburg. This was the greatest battle of the whole war, and resulted in the 
utter defeat of the Confederates, who retreated to Virgina. At the same time Grant 
captured Vicksburg and thus opened the Mississippi River to Federal traffic and 
broke the power of the rebellion in that part of the country. The next year Grant 
was called to the east and made commander-in-chief of the whole Federal army, 
taking personal charge of the Army of the Potomac in Virginia and making Rich- 
mond and Lee's army his objective points. William T. Sherman was left in charge 
in the west. Grant fought a series of tremendous battles with Lee around Rich- 
mond while Sherman marched southeast through Georgia, to Atlanta and to the sea 
at Savannah, reaching the latter at the end of 1864. Sherman then marched north- 
ward to join Grant, but before he reached him, on April 9, 1865, Grant surrounded 
Lee and compelled him to surrender with his whole army, at Appomattox Court- 
house, Virginia. That was practically the end of the war. A few days later 
President Lincoln was assassinated by one Booth, a revengeful Southerner. Jeffer- 
son Davis was captured as he was trying to flee from the country, and was kept in 
prison for some time, and then released. A general amnesty was declared, slavery 
was forever abolished, the negroes were admitted to citizenship, and in time the 
lately rebellious states were taken back into the Union as before. 

The Return of Peace. 

After the war the United States entered upon a career of great prosperity. 
The Vice-President, Andrew Johnson, succeeded to the Presidency on the murder of 
Lincoln. Nevada and Nebraska were admitted as states. The great territory of 
Alaska was purchased from Russia in 1867, for $7,000,000. In 1869 General Grant 
became President, and under his administration the serious disputes with Great 
Britain growing out of the war were submitted to arbitration, and thus the example 
of peaceful settlement of international disputes was set to the world. 

In 1876 the centennial anniversary of the Declaration of Independence was 
celebrated with a world's fair at Philadelphia, the largest exhibition of its kind ever 
held in the world down to that time. The Presidential election of that year was 
closely contested and for months the result was in doubt, charges of fraud being 
freely made on both sides. At last a special commission to which the case had 
been referred decided that Rutherford B. Hayes had been elected, and he was 
accordingly installed. Near the close of his administration the use of gold as 
currency, which had been suspended in the war, was successfully resumed. In 



524 HISTORY OF THE WORLD, - 

1880 James A. Garfield was elected President, but was assassinated a few months 
after taking office and was succeeded by the Vice-President, Chester A. Arthur. 
The next President was Grover Cleveland, in 1885. Then came Benjamin 
Harrison, in 1889, for four years, then Cleveland again for four years, and then the 
latest, William McKinley, elected in 1896 and installed in 1897. 

The French Empire and Republic 

The Empire of Louis Napoleon began to decline soon after the war in Italy. 
In the hope of preserving prestige, Napoleon persuaded Maximilian, the brother of 
the Austrian Emperor, to go to Mexico, and set up an empire there under French 
protection. That enterprise seemed to prosper as long as the United States was 
convulsed with civil war. But in 1865 the United States Government compelled 
the French army to be withdrawn from Mexico. The fall of the Empire followed, 
and Maximilian was put to death. This brought much reproach upon Napoleon, and 
he sought to divert attention from his disgrace by other enterprises. He accord- 
ingly picked a quarrel with Prussia in 1870 over the succession to the Spanish 
throne. Prussia was not at all reluctant to fight. Indeed, she rather courted the 
conflict. The other German states joined Prussia, and thus another great war began. 

War was declared on July 19, 1870. In one or two small engagements the 
French were successful. But it soon became clear that France was utterly 
unprepared for war, while Germany was perfectly prepared. The Germans poured 
across the Rhine in three enormous armies and defeated the French in a number of 
great battles. In a few weeks the French Emperor, with an army of 90,000 men, was 
captured at Sedan. He was sent to Germany as a prisoner, and afterward to Eng- 
land, where he died a few years later. On his fall the French declared the Empire 
abolished and established a republic. 

The Terrible Year. 

But the war went on, through what the French well call the " Terrible Year." 
The Germans pressed on irresistibly. Strasburg was besieged, and after a heroic 
defence was taken, Metz was besieged, and soon captured with its garrison of 
180,000 men, betrayed, it was believed, by a false commander. Paris itself was 
besieged, bombarded, and captured. Then peace was made on hard terms for 
France. She was compelled to cede Alsace and most of Lorraine to Germany, and 
to pay Germany $1,000,000,000. This immense sum she quickly paid, in spite of 
the exhaustion caused by the war, her people setting an example of patriotic devo- 
tion unsurpassed in history. 

The new French republic was soon firmly established. It was at first fiercely 
resisted by the Communists, who seized possession of Paris and revived there the 
horrors of the Reign of Terror. They were at last suppressed. The first President 
of the Republic was Adolphe Thiers. He resigned and was succeeded by Marshal 
MacMahon, a gallant soldier, who was a friend of the Bonaparte family, and was 
suspected of wishing an Imperialist restoration. He too resigned, and was sue- 



HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 525 

ceeded by Jules Grevy, who served a full term, and was elected to a second, but 
soon thereafter was compelled to resign on account of the political corruption of his 
son-in-law. Sadi Carnot, grandson of the Carnot of the Revolution, was next 
chosen, but near the end of his term of office was assassinated by an Italian Anar- 
chist. To him succeeded Casimir-Perier, who resigned after a few months and was 
succeeded by Felix Faure. 

Great Britain^ 

The salient points of British history in these years may be briefly noted. An 
uprising of "Fenians" in Ireland was suppressed in 1867, and a successful expedi- 
tion was dispatched to Abyssinia to rescue some British subjects held as prisoners. 
Between 18C8 and 1874 a new Reform act was passed, the Irish Church was dis- 
established, the system of purchasing places in the army was abolished, and the 
secret ballot was introduced. These were largely Mr. Gladstone's work. Then 
Mr. Disraeli became Premier, a controlling interest in the Suez Canal was pur- 
chased, and in 1876 the Queen was proclaimed Empress of India. Wars with the 
Zulus, the Boers, and the Afghans followed, in 1879-81. Then a serious famine in 
Ireland was followed by political disturbances and a vigorous Parliamentary campaign 
for separation from England. A native rebellion in Egypt made British interference 
necessary, Alexandria was bombarded in 1882 and a British army soon dispersed 
the insurgents. The illustrious Charles Gordon was sent to Khartoum to hold that 
place and was there basely abandoned to his death by the Gladstone Government. 
Later, in 1896-7 a British expedition was sent to retake Khartoum and reconquer 
the Soudan which had been given up to the rebels. 

In the summer of 1897 the sixtieth anniversary of the Queen's coronation was 
celebrated with imposing ceremonies, her reign then having lasted longer than that 
of any other British sovereign. 

Russia and Turkey. 

Serious disturbances arose in the Balkan States in 1876, which led to a declara- 
tion of war against Turkey by Russia. A great Russian Army of invasion was sent 
down, but was at first defeated by the Turks. Finally with the aid of the Rouma- 
nians the Russians were successful, and would have captured Constantinople itself 
had not Great Britain interfered in the interest of the balance of power. The net 
results of the war were that Montenegro and Servia were enlarged and made 
independent, Bulgaria was made autonomous, Bosnia and Herzegovina were given 
to Austria, Roumania was much strengthened, Russia got an indemnity and much 
territory in Armenia, and England got the island of Cyprus. 

In 1882 the Czar Alexander II. was assassinated by Nihilists, and a bitter cam- 
paign against them followed. Russia steadily pressed on in Central Asia, absorbing 
country after country until she possessed nearly all the continent not held by India, 
China and Persia. 

The Turkish Government in 1895 entered upon a general massacre of Arme- 
nian Christians, and put more than 250,000 of them to death. The European 






(6 



526 HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

powers protested but did not venture to interfere. Russia now posed as the ally of 
Turkey and virtually protected that power. Turkish aggression led to a war with 
Greece in 1897, .n which Greece was beaten and robbed of much territory. 

China and Japan. 

The empire of Japan about 1885 entered upon a career of marked expansion 
and progress. Universal suffrage and representative government were established 
and the country began to rank with Europe and America in civilization. A war 
broke out with China in 1894, in which the Chinese were badly beaten and great 
advantages won for Japan, although European powers interfered to rob Japan of 
some of the fruits of victory. Soon afterward China gave Russia the right to occupy 
and build railroads in Manchuria and Mongolia, and practically placed herself under 
Russian protection. 

Cuba. 

The island of Cuba, long dissatisfied with Spanish rule, has often risen in 
revolt. A ten years* war was fought from 1868 to 1878, marked with great sever- 
ities on the Spanish side, but ended indecisively. In the early part of 1895 the 
Cubans again took up arms and proclaimed their independence of Spain. An 
enormous army was sent to suppress them, by far the largest ever sent across the 
ocean by any power. Under the command of General Weyler,- popularly called 
"The Butcher," it committed acts of incredible cruelty and savagery, and killed or 
starved to death scores of thousands of women and children, and laid much of the 
island waste. The Cubans proved unconquerable, however. Weyler was recalled 
in the fall of 1897, and a more humane man was put in his place to try to effect a 
compromise with the insurgents. 

Closing Years. 

The four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America by Columbus was 
magnificently celebrated in the United States in 1892-3, with a World's Fair at 
Chicago, and other demonstrations. In T897 New York and its neighbors were 
consolidated into a single city, the largest in the world save London. 

Of the vast achievements of science, in which the United States has borne a 
leading part, space will not permit us to treat at length. Every year brings forth 
some new triumph of mind over matter, for the betterment of the conditions of 
human life. There is no occasion to lament the "lost arts" of the past. The 
present is the best age that has yet dawned upon the world. And in it our own 
country may without boasting be reckoned 

"... The heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.'' 



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